RND/ To consider a painting of the Dark Academia aesthetic.
I am sick to death of poor people
– The Riot Club (Dir. Lone Scherfig, 2014)
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In which every time you now hear the word ‘AESTHETIC’ (online, natch) you feel queasy, and think of posing white hipsters with high disposable income – andor just straight up Fascism. If you want to dress like Harry Plotter, here’s a hot tip – don’t do it at an English university that’s not Oxford or Cambridge (and even then.) Otherwise real people* who don’t live entirely up their own arts will stare at you like you’ve arrived through a wormhole from another (non-existent) age ‘where Class really meant something’, amirite? From some permanently, pathologically cosy, photoshop-shit-brown faded Green And Pleasant land where dog lovers and old maids with slightly hairy upper lips bicycle to holy communion through the morning mist and the sound of leather on willow echoes over perfectly manicured lawns owned by sippers of Dear Mother’s cream tea, rustling their curtains while staring at the invading foreign neighbors and penning frightfully angry letters to the Enlightened Times about the rising cost of sex dungeon equipment. In short, you will have the piss ripped right out of you (be made an object of ridicule) whereforever thou saunter on campus, hardback book of 15th Century Italian love poetry faithfully stained with the butterdrips of artisan crumpets under your slender yet strong arm (made strong by constantly jerking in the mirror at how utterly DAPPER you look, Jeremy darling.) You snobby little ponce; take of that tweet-Tory jacket and stop writing bad poems nobody should read with that expensive bullshit fountain pen you stole from your dead Grandfather. You are not the reincarnation of Arthur Conan Doyle or Donna Fucking Tartt – and the Dead Poets Society sucked. Your life is not a YA thriller set at a boarding school with a polite Eurocentrist revisionist narrative; kill all darlings and decolonize the ashes.
// how to play big science