When I think of retro, I think of
my parents.
I think of photos of them when
my brother and I were just kids,
wearing complimentary ’80s color
block windbreakers (my brother and
I were born in the ’90s and 2000s,
but my parents have always been
old school). I think about the film,
television and music my parents
showed me growing up — the same
stuff they grew up on, just 8,000
miles away in Rangpur, Bangladesh,
instead of Louisville, Ky. There’s
a lot that gets lost in translation
when you’re born so far from where
your parents are from, but “Butch
Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,”
Rabindranath Tagore and Boney M.
spoke with perfect clarity.
There’s just something about the
wild charm of the Sundance Kid
and the groovy beats of “Daddy
Cool” that inspires the imagination,
even about the people you’ve spent
every day of your life with. They
provide new (and by new I mean
old) versions of my parents that had
faded behind the mirage of family
dinners and car rides to soccer
practice. I no longer saw my mom
as the woman that wouldn’t let me
leave the house without breakfast
no matter the circumstances or my
dad as the man that sneezed loud
enough to wake me up from the
other side of the apartment — I saw
them young, free of responsibility
and of the wear of the years. I
imagined my teenage dad jumping
out of his seat when shots rang from
his favorite outlaw’s gun. I imagined
my mom singing and dancing in her
childhood bedroom.
Like a serum of immortality or
portal through time, experiencing
my parents’ favorite things and
finding that they sparked joy in me
too revived a part of them I thought
was long gone. And it made me
wonder what I will pass on to my
future kids — what my serum is.
What proverbial torch will I pass on
when I finally become retro?
What
struck
me
is
how
comprehensively the world had
changed from one generation to the
next, and how much it will continue
to change until I one day show my
kids, I don’t know, The Strokes or
something. I felt unequipped to
process the passage of time as it
applies to myself. And as I do with
all things too big to process on my
own, I turned to art.
I watched films about getting
older
(“The
Fabelmans”),
I
watched films about being a parent
(“Aftersun”),
I
watched
films
about dying (“Steel Magnolias”).
I watched films about being old
and reflecting on being young
(“Titanic”). I watched films about
being young while actually being
old (“The Curious Case of Benjamin
Button”). I listened to old songs
about getting old (“When I’m Sixty-
Four”) and new songs about being
young (“Young, Wild & Free”).
Some of it was helpful (“Ida”), some
of it less so (“P.S. I Love You”). In the
end, the only conclusive result from
my research was a headache.
I called my parents.
“Remember when we used to
watch westerns on the weekends?”
I mused.
“What, like ‘Butch Cassidy?’ ” my
dad replied, immediately.
“Yeah,” I laughed. “Like that.”
“What
about
it?”
my
dad
responded.
I paused for a minute, unsure
how to proceed. Until finally:
“Want to watch it when I come
home next weekend?”
Suddenly, there wasn’t much else
to research.
Design by Leah Hoogterp
The title of “rock star” is
attached with a narrative — the
debaucherous, drug-fueled lifestyle,
the charisma and swagger, the epic
struggles of defying the system and
“making it big” — summed up nicely
by the “sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll”
motto.
But today, that quality is stripped
away. Rock music’s sparkling deities
have been perverted — not by age
or by degradation of talent, but by
the internet’s mystique-destroying
powers. Household names from
the gilded era of rock ‘n’ roll have
Twitter accounts now. We see them
without stage makeup and the
mystery is gone. Many of them are
abandoning the ineffable coolness
they once possessed: Slash of Guns
‘N’ Roses squeezes out the “Sweet
Child O’ Mine” riff in a Capital
One ad, Elton John adds absolutely
nothing as a guest star in a mediocre
spy comedy, Julian Casablancas of
The Strokes reposts TikToks to his
Instagram.
None of these people are the
otherworldly, glamorous, inhuman
monuments they used to be. None
of them are cool anymore. It’s
unfair — cruel, maybe — to knock
down these figures for just being
seen as regular people. But it would
be disappointing to accept that rock
stars were always uncool, to reject
the mythology that enraptured
entire generations.
Take the British punk movement
of the ’70s — Sex Pistols, the Clash,
Buzzcocks — which was first
defined by its delinquent, foul-
mouthed response to economic
injustices and categorical rejection
of
“The
Establishment.”
The
rhetoric struck a resonant frequency
with younger demographics —
one struggling for authenticity,
desperate to physically distance
themselves from the adult world.
Music was so closely aligned with
societal discontent that political
figures became enemies, and their
vilification summoned militias of
spiky-haired, leather-clad teenagers
to join the counterculture. The
attitude is seen slightly later in the
Margaret Thatcher-tinted gloom
of The Smiths, Elvis Costello and
others.
]Roughly a decade later, The
Beatles’ 1968 song “Back In The
U.S.S.R.” made its way to the
generation that saw the collapse
of the Soviet Union — as a totem
of Western ideology, the band was
even credited for preparing the
Eastern Bloc youth for a new life.
Listening to Western rock music
was an ideological practice, a way
to participate in counterculture.
Following
the
Soviet
Union’s
collapse,
Czechoslovakian
dissident-turned-President Václav
Havel fostered friendships with
The Rolling Stones and Lou Reed of
the Velvet Underground. Rock stars
weren’t just musicians; they had
developed a verve of resistance and
dynamism.
To a lesser magnitude, rock stars
have at the very least been known
for their unique artistic presence —
bands like The Strokes still carried
forward the ideology set by their
forefathers. The Strokes made
waves for the stylish arrogance
and post-punk influences that
constituted
their
indisputable
coolness. Their public presence
was just as important as their
music in granting them the rock
star quality.
6 — Wednesday, March 15, 2023
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
I had a Pinterest board when
I was 13 titled “Retro Quotes” —
which, if the name didn’t make
it obvious, was full of quotes
from classic Hollywood stars
like Marilyn Monroe, Audrey
Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor. It’s
worth noting that I had never seen
any of their movies at the time,
but the words attributed to these
women spoke to my younger self.
Their quotes became my words to
live by: “If you cant’t handle me at
my worst, then you don’t deserve
me at my best.” “Happy girls are
the prettiest girls.” “Pour yourself
a drink, put on some lipstick and
pull yourself together.” These
women exuded femininity and
elegance
years
after
passing,
through something as simple as a
low-quality social media post.
As I’ve grown older and become
more appreciative of my identity
as a woman, I still try to live by
their words in a way. I’m lucky
enough to have people in my
life who love me at my worst. I
feel much more confident about
myself when I’m happy. I don’t
usually wear lipstick, but at least I
can legally drink now. Where my
so-called relationship with these
women has changed, however,
is that I’ve become more aware
of how much popular culture
has aestheticized them. I’ve read
books that were clearly based
on
Taylor’s
many
marriages;
Hepburn’s iconic black dress in
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s” frequently
ends
up
on
DIY
Halloween
costume lists; Monroe remains
a popular subject in movies (for
better or for worse). I began to see
that the reasons we consider these
women iconic are only a small
part of their lives. It seems to me
that society has blurred the line
between legacy and reality, and I
want to understand exactly what
that means.
Marilyn Monroe is primarily
remembered for either her movie-
star status or her downward
spiral at the early end of her life.
Or, at least, I had only ever heard
her discussed this way. I knew
the basics: She was blonde and
beautiful. She starred in movies
like “The Seven Year Itch” and
“Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” She
may or may not have had an affair
with John F. Kennedy. She died of
a drug overdose at only 36 years
old. But Monroe was obviously
a more well-rounded individual
beyond being a beautiful but
troubled actress. Just while doing
research for this article, I learned
that she had a difficult childhood,
was in and out of several foster
homes and experienced sexual
abuse during that time. She wasn’t
even a natural blonde. She started
her own production company,
which some say aided the collapse
of the studio system. Yes, she
struggled with addiction, but
also suffered from several mental
health conditions and possibly
even endometriosis.
But the piece of information I
was most surprised to learn was
that she disliked playing a “dumb
blonde” or “sex roles” — which
happened often. Her most famous
movies were marketed using her
sex appeal, and that exploitation
of her image is one of the biggest
things I still see happening to
her today. The Michigan Theater
screened “Some Like It Hot” for
Valentine’s Day, and I can attest
that several people in the theater
either giggled or whistled almost
every time Monroe was on screen.
Typecasting unfortunately still
happens in the entertainment
industry, but Monroe was at more
of a disadvantage considering her
contract originally kept her from
choosing her own projects. She did
eventually earn that right after a
year-long fight with 20th Century
Fox, as well as the opportunity
to show off more of her range,
but this knowledge makes her
cemented status as a bombshell
all the more frustrating. She was
much more talented and bright
than people gave her credit for,
and yet I still don’t see enough
conversation about her outside of
her appearance.
Elizabeth
Taylor
was
considered one of the first modern
celebrities. Starring in movies like
“Cleopatra,” “Cat on a Hot Tin
Roof” and “Father of the Bride,”
she, like Monroe, had several of
her films promoted using her sex
appeal. Due to sensationalized
rumors,
public
attention
was
frequently drawn to her personal
life. Taylor hated her fame. She
felt that the films she received
the most acclaim for cut scenes
that displayed the core of her
characters, disliked how much
control the studio had over her
and found it hard to be viewed as
herself rather than the roles she
played.
Still, Taylor recognized that she
had been given a platform, which
she used to drive her philanthropic
efforts. She was one of the first
celebrities to take part in HIV/
AIDS activism, helping to found
Only some of my sisters are dead; I
wear their clothes. I remember them
in the red canvas skirt I wore today,
in the denim jacket that’s almost a
bathrobe and almost too long, in the
windbreaker patterned with Time
Magazine covers. If I have met these
sisters, I am not aware of it. Their
clothing is washed, stains scrubbed
out, worn or loose threads replaced
with new, strong ones and knotted
to keep their hems intact by the time
I find it on a rack in a vintage store,
slotted between others that aren’t
my style or wouldn’t fit me.
Why is vintage clothing special
to me? I told myself I would stop
buying fast fashion at the end of
high school, but proceeded to slip up
whenever I saw something through
a store window and immediately
went from thinking it was cute to
thinking I couldn’t live without it. I
still guiltily returned to the Urban
Outfitters website at the end of
stressful days. In the past year, this
has stopped happening. I enter a
traditional clothing store and find
nothing I like. Everything feels sort
of false, like it’s not really clothing
at all but pieces of flimsy, unworn
materials that I worry would cause
me to lose all sense of identity should
I put them on.
When clothing feels like it could
fall apart at any moment, I worry
that life and wear will destroy it;
when I know there are hundreds
of identical copies of that piece of
clothing, I worry that I can’t give it
a distinguishable meaning before its
seams break or its frail threads rip.
When I look through a vintage
store, the clothing already has an
identity. It often has lived decades
longer than I have. I can trust it
not to fall apart. Even if it is not one
of a kind, its path has diverged so
much from any copies that it feels
unique anyway. Fingerprints stay
in clothing; the DNA of people who
made and wore it remains in the
fibers. There is care sewn into it,
from the original maker, the vintage
store owners who rescued it from
death in a landfill and the previous
owners, who cared for the clothing
before it got to me. Those owners are
the sisters I mention. We have not
met, but we share the same clothing,
we care for the same clothing and
the life of that clothing binds our
lives together. Vintage clothing is
not immortal; no clothing is. But it
is less mortal than I am. Wearing
something that I will likely outlive
makes me uneasy. Receding into the
vintage denim coat that drops to my
ankles, my mortality is extended by
its enclosure in something that will
live on. My life merges with those
who have worn it before and will
wear it after me.
I like things to outlive me. Maybe
I want to avoid dealing with loss and
would prefer everything to stick
around at least until I’m gone. If you
read “clothing” and “sisterhood”
and were waiting for me to mention
“The Sisterhood of the Traveling
Pants,” I will. I read this book and
the next three in the series in middle
school, when I had to walk to the
library after school and stay there
until my mom finished working and
could retrieve me. I sat in one of the
chairs in the library’s minuscule
“teen” section and read, noted my
place and returned to my book the
next day. I never checked a book out.
The four friends (“sisters”) between
whom the pants travel agree that
they shouldn’t be able to fit in the
same pair of jeans. I assume this
magic is not present in the vintage
clothes I wear. I can only picture
their previous owners by the fact
that they fit into something that
also fits me. They are outlines, at
best. Maybe I know their waist
measurements, but not their height.
Perhaps we have similar genetics in
some way, giving us similar bodies,
perhaps we molded our bodies into
similar shapes of our own accord or
perhaps we don’t look similar at all —
maybe one sister bought something
too small, another too large.
Sisterhood
is
a
form
of
immortality, or at least prolonged
mortality. By sisterhood, I mean
connection
and
friendship.
Sisterhoods don’t have to be founded
in material objects, but these can
help with that mortality. They
inherently involve sharing things —
ourselves, our lives, our jokes, our
flaws. Tying people together via a
more durable, stable material object
can create something less tenuous.
I have been involved in several
“sisterhoods” of traveling objects.
I bought the book “Kiki Man Ray”
by Mark Braude and told my friends
they would all have to read it — the
sisterhood of the traveling “Kiki
Man Ray.” Other film writers and
I went to The Getup Vintage on
State Street and I saw a Beatles shirt
hanging high on the wall, white with
colorful squares across it. It cost
more than $100, too much for even
me to justify spending on a T-shirt.
What if we all bought it? We could
share it. (Well, I could technically
own it and lend it to other writers if
they so desired).
“Sisterhood
of
the
traveling
Beatles shirt,” texted one writer.
One sister.
“Exactly.”
I bought the softest pair of jeans
that I own at Malofta Vintage, a
vintage store in Kerrytown. The
jeans are so well-worn that the
waistband is fuzzy in places. The
measurement listed on the tag
would have been too small for me,
but because they seem to have been
some previous owner’s favorite
jeans, they fit comfortably. The
sisterhood of vintage clothing is
not necessarily a way to have my
presence or body remembered,
but a way of being remembered by
sharing something, some part of
myself and my life, intertwined with
those of others. There is — or there
was — someone out there with not
just the same favorite brand or style
of jeans, but the same pair of jeans
as me.
Clothing can be a box. It is created
with limits of fabric and thread, and
I must find the clothing that can
properly contain me in particular.
I like fitting into things. Clothing.
The red skirt. And friendships.
Communities.
Sisterhoods.
I
like to create them using shared
objects because of those objects’
immortality — that feeling that
there is a way of making space for
myself in the world.
Remembering Marilyn, Elizabeth and Audrey for the right reasons
ERIN EVANS
Senior Arts Editor
Only some of my sisters are dead
What happened to rock stars?
HANNAH CARAPELLOTTI
Daily Arts Writer
LAINE BROTHERTON
Managing Arts Editor
On becoming retro
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
SARAH RAHMAN
Managing Arts Editor
Design by Francie Ahrens
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Read more at MichiganDaily.com
Design by Tye Kalinovic
Design by Grace Filbin