Style depends on an inside potential, but there is no style inside. Style always takes place in the outer world. Style is an ongoing becoming. Style is in need of a stage, for instance a certain meeting, the weather or the lens of camera. There is always an element of "styling up for something" in style.
Consequently, when we are trying to grasp style we must include the stages. An inside potential for gravitas, joy or charm only make sense if we understand the stages that a person perceives.
Style and Stage
This is an early stage of Style. 
Style needs not a stage, but many stages, on its way to the light - like a diver ascending from great depths, who needs to stop at certain points along his guiding rope, lest the rapid decrease in pressure should harm him. On its way from within, where it resides (or not, as merciful or indifferent as the Gods were).
It is a balloon that WANTS to come up, but we keep weighing it with so many speculations on style and with so much styling and acting. When all we have to do is let it come to the surface, following its natural tendency.
Stage by stage...
Style needs not a stage, but many stages, on its way to the light - like a diver ascending from great depths, who needs to stop at certain points along his guiding rope, lest the rapid decrease in pressure should harm him. On its way from within, where it resides (or not, as merciful or indifferent as the Gods were).
It is a balloon that WANTS to come up, but we keep weighing it with so many speculations on style and with so much styling and acting. When all we have to do is let it come to the surface, following its natural tendency.
Stage by stage...
-
Gruto
The idea that you find style within is missing style's ongoing becoming. You find all sorts of potentials inside but they will only find a specific form - style, for instance - when a person perceives a stage or more stages. The stage lights the fire inside.Costi wrote:This is an early stage of Style.
Style needs not a stage, but many stages, on its way to the light - like a diver ascending from great depths, who needs to stop at certain points along his guiding rope, lest the rapid decrease in pressure should harm him. On its way from within, where it resides (or not, as merciful or indifferent as the Gods were).
It is a balloon that WANTS to come up, but we keep weighing it with so many speculations on style and with so much styling and acting. When all we have to do is let it come to the surface, following its natural tendency.
Stage by stage...
Performances need a stage.
Style is not a performance.
Style is.
Or is not...
Like intelligence. Or goodness. You can't hide it, you can't act it, it doesn't depend on context.
Style is not an effort, like playing a part in front of an audience. It is a natural state, it is a music in your head - you can't turn it on or off. You have it. Or not...
Style is not a performance.
Style is.
Or is not...
Like intelligence. Or goodness. You can't hide it, you can't act it, it doesn't depend on context.
Style is not an effort, like playing a part in front of an audience. It is a natural state, it is a music in your head - you can't turn it on or off. You have it. Or not...
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Gruto
Just like style, intelligence and goodness are meaningless without a stage. You cannot speak about them without including a stage. You are always good AT something, not just good. Think of Proust. He showed how the inside is inextricably linked with the outside, for instance a madeleine cake!
Please:
(Oh, and Proust's madeleine is not so much about the link between in and out - which is taken for granted - but between past and present; after all, it is a search through Time. All the way to other end of the novel(s) from the madeleine episode - because the end mirrors the beginning - there is this phrase, hidden like a gem among so many beautiful turns of phrase: "What we call reality is a certain rapport between the sensations and memories that envelop as simultaneously"; that is, in my view, the key to reading the madeleine episode, as well as the pavement stone one which triggers the "regaining of time" - i.e., reintegrating the memories and the sensations for for the full revelation and apprehension - not in an existentialist sense - of reality. But it all happens inside and has no stage or spectators, neither does it need any; like all important things
)
(PS: and I hope you agree with Marcel Duchamp that "the finest work of art is a life well lived" - NB, not well acted, not well performed, but well LIVED, and that takes place INSIDE, no matter where life takes you on the outside. And here is what our dear Monsieur Proust has to say about it: "we are not at all free with regard to the work of art, we do not create at as we please, instead - since it pre-exists inside us, we must, since it is necessary and at the same time veiled, discover it as we would do with a law of nature". Art seen not as a creation [of the mind], but as a piece of Truth - one's own, of course - brought to the surface and given its own life. That is what he did with his own work of art and this is wherein its power of seduction resides! Living with Style is an ongoing becoming, as you write, but a work of discovery rather than of invention.)
(Oh, and Proust's madeleine is not so much about the link between in and out - which is taken for granted - but between past and present; after all, it is a search through Time. All the way to other end of the novel(s) from the madeleine episode - because the end mirrors the beginning - there is this phrase, hidden like a gem among so many beautiful turns of phrase: "What we call reality is a certain rapport between the sensations and memories that envelop as simultaneously"; that is, in my view, the key to reading the madeleine episode, as well as the pavement stone one which triggers the "regaining of time" - i.e., reintegrating the memories and the sensations for for the full revelation and apprehension - not in an existentialist sense - of reality. But it all happens inside and has no stage or spectators, neither does it need any; like all important things
)(PS: and I hope you agree with Marcel Duchamp that "the finest work of art is a life well lived" - NB, not well acted, not well performed, but well LIVED, and that takes place INSIDE, no matter where life takes you on the outside. And here is what our dear Monsieur Proust has to say about it: "we are not at all free with regard to the work of art, we do not create at as we please, instead - since it pre-exists inside us, we must, since it is necessary and at the same time veiled, discover it as we would do with a law of nature". Art seen not as a creation [of the mind], but as a piece of Truth - one's own, of course - brought to the surface and given its own life. That is what he did with his own work of art and this is wherein its power of seduction resides! Living with Style is an ongoing becoming, as you write, but a work of discovery rather than of invention.)
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Gruto
Clearly, experience is on the inside but there would no experience - just babbling- without a stage to fuel it, without a clash with the outside world.Costi wrote:it all happens inside and has no stage or spectators, neither does it need any; like all important things
Trying to isolate style from the social is like describing summer without mentioning the weather. Difficult, if not impossible.
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NJS
Gruto wrote:
Trying to isolate style from the social is like describing summer without mentioning the weather. Difficult, if not impossible.
The summer weather in England is often freezing cold and pelting with rain. It keeps the 'dahling' stage artistes indoors.
-
Gruto
"No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as a manor of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
- John Donne (1572-1631)
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as a manor of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
- John Donne (1572-1631)
Oh, the bells...
III
Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now -now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
instead of...
I
Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
(E.A.POE)
III
Hear the loud alarum bells -
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now -now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
Of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
instead of...
I
Hear the sledges with the bells -
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
(E.A.POE)
I was told about people, humanity,Gruto wrote:"No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as a manor of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
- John Donne (1572-1631)
But I never saw either people, or humanity.
I saw various persons astonishingly different from each other,
Each separate from the other by a space without persons.
(Fernando Pessoa)
... but I don't believe in that, it's just for the sake of the argument, and of the "balance" that I know you value so much
That Style is not a social function, that it exists within us without a need for action, for show, does not preclude the enjoyment of being with others and manifesting Style in their presence (a man of Style couldn't do that even if he wanted to, because there is no ON/OFF button to Style). But we should not imagine that it is born of an interaction. Can you say a piano sonata does not exist until the pianist interacts with the piano to play it? But he can play it in his mind just as well... Others played it on the piano before him and still others will play it after him. He himself will probably play it again - does the sonata cease to EXIST in the meantime? Perhaps it will cease to MANIFEST, but not to EXIST.
-
Gruto
A sheet of music is not music in itself, but a potential for music. A human being must act to bring music to exist. Just like style, music is an ongoing becoming, a becoming that use stages. It might be a very real stage with an audience beneath but it could also be the shower. The point is, that expression and acting always have a framework, a medium. People always dwell on something that influence their style. Disposition + Stage = StyleCosti wrote:Can you say a piano sonata does not exist until the pianist interacts with the piano to play it? But he can play it in his mind just as well... Others played it on the piano before him and still others will play it after him. He himself will probably play it again - does the sonata cease to EXIST in the meantime? Perhaps it will cease to MANIFEST, but not to EXIST.
Style is no more the result of a staged disposition than music is a performance. I am reading an interesting book written by Oliver Sacks called "Musicophilia". He describes many (not psychiatrical!) cases of people who hear music in their heads. Not just pieces they have heard and replay in their minds (but that, too, is an instance of "unperformed", or "unstaged" music), but also never before heard music, which they are unable to perform for others (lacking the skills, in some cases). But that music is nonetheless real! It exists.
The author tells the story of how his father used to lull himself to sleep every evening picking up a book with musical "quotations" - pieces of music, well-known themes - and that was enough for him to start playing an entire concert or symphony, all in his mind. An inner performance.
If you wish, we can call Style that - to combine our points of view: an inner performance.
If one can only think of Style in relation to OTHERS, and not just to HIMSELF, for its own sake, one lacks authenticity. This is not about putting on a dinner suit to have dinner all by yourself at home (that is very sad and a total misunderstanding of Style - even though, in very special circumstances, it can be very poetic), but about always being in contact with that inner source of Style, of being unable to turn it off, because that would mean turning YOURSELF off. And we do have an existence of our own, even an inner LIFE of our own (which can be full of Style!), without anyone else being involved.
Dream in Style!
The author tells the story of how his father used to lull himself to sleep every evening picking up a book with musical "quotations" - pieces of music, well-known themes - and that was enough for him to start playing an entire concert or symphony, all in his mind. An inner performance.
If you wish, we can call Style that - to combine our points of view: an inner performance.
If one can only think of Style in relation to OTHERS, and not just to HIMSELF, for its own sake, one lacks authenticity. This is not about putting on a dinner suit to have dinner all by yourself at home (that is very sad and a total misunderstanding of Style - even though, in very special circumstances, it can be very poetic), but about always being in contact with that inner source of Style, of being unable to turn it off, because that would mean turning YOURSELF off. And we do have an existence of our own, even an inner LIFE of our own (which can be full of Style!), without anyone else being involved.
Dream in Style!
-
Gruto
All sorts of sounds and dreams are passing through our heads. Some of it is just babbling, other parts are our inner working with the world outside us. (to be continued)
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