Style and Stage

[Gruto]

What is wrong with who we are that we should wear a mask?!

To a certain extent acting is a part of being human. Have you watched Benigni's Life is beautiful? It tells it all.

Don't confuse masking with hiding. Masking can be a refined way full of style to tell the truth about yourself.

[Costi]

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

(W. Shakespeare, "As You Like It").

Here are your stages. Stay true to your age and you'll do fine on your stage.

Don't confuse masking with hiding. Masking can be refined way full of style to tell the truth about yourself.

That sounds full absurd to me... mask myself with refinement so I can tell the truth about myself? What am I, a Kabuki actor?! I am a mere human being who wants to enjoy life, people... No need for makeup, thank you!

[Rowly]

The moderating moderator recommends moderate moderation applied moderately

He is the very model of a modern major moderator...I think I will take his advice...last one out, turn out the lights! That's a wrap!

[Gruto]

Don't confuse masking with hiding. Masking can be refined way full of style to tell the truth about yourself.

That sounds way full absurd to me... mask myself with refinement so I an tell the truth about myself? What am I, a Kabuki actor?! I am a mere human being who wants to enjoy life, people... No need for makeup, thank you!

Show me just one man of style who doesn't apply an element of acting, thank you!

[Costi]

Show me just one man of style who doesn't apply an element of acting, thank you!

no, it's not a mirror...

[Gruto]

Show me just one man of style who doesn't apply an element of acting, thank you!

no, it's not a mirror...

I'm waiting ...

[Costi]

Why, do you think he ACTS anything? He's the real thing! All that he says and does is genuine! Genuinely nihilistic, but genuine nonetheless. The naysayer, the denier - how brilliantly Liszt depicts him in his Faust symphony as simply denaturing the themes of Faust and Gretchen, mocking them, disintegrating the music of the previous two parts - because he cannot create, he can only deny.
And he has tons of Style - the kind skillfully crafted in the clash (excellent choice of word) with the World, with humanity - its sorrows, its worldly hopes, its ambitions. He can be persuasive, he can seduce, he fascinates - he's a winner at social staging! Yet he's the perfect actor because he is absolutely AUTHENTIC.
What a shame he loses in the end... it's unfair, isn't it? He was the brightest, the most clever, the most intelligent, he kept his word to Faust every time, never disappointed him, did everything right, according to his contract - yet in the end he loses the bet. So much style an fascination wasted...
He is also the master of masks - he is wearing a pretty cool one, eh? But the thing is he CANNOT show himself without a mask, because you'd be running away like... hell? So the mask IS a matter of social survival for him.

One more thing: no man of real Style wears a mask, because there is a huge difference between assuming a role in life (thus behaving accordingly) and acting a part, the way a bad actor does on a stage (because a good actor's acting is real life). What makes the difference between one and the other is that authenticity, that good faith, the genuine belief in what one is and does.

[Costi]

The Man Who Lost Himself

A whig, a rabbit’s foot, a little jar of cold cream and another one of carmine and, on top of it all, an impalpable cloud of powder were enough to ensure eternal youth. A long cape hanging beautifully from his shoulders, the stockings pulled tight over the artificial rubber calves, the hand elegantly accustomed to salute, barely touching the ground with the tip of the white panache of the tricorn or musketeer sombrero, made him undeniably beautiful and had gained him the fame of an irresistible lover.
However, used to showing his love in front of everyone, to declaring his blazing love every evening to a new lover, to making gestures that are otherwise allowed only in the closest intimacy, to pulling his sword without hesitation when coming across an adversary singing his romance under a balcony over which he held the rights of the first occupant, he no longer felt at ease among real people and could no longer make sense of life outside the theatre…
He had had his share of conquests and adventures, of course, but the one who knew how to drape himself so well in the folds of a cape, to reproduce what others had thought for him, to handle a sword so elegantly and to utter so movingly “I love you!...” to the victim that his repertoire immolated to him, would become sinister and stupid when he had to love for real.
In absence of his prompter to whisper his lines, he would become dumbstruck and wretched, the dialogue had to be over very quickly, as soliloquy is not allowed in love and bears a rather unpleasant name in pathology treatises. The charms would vanish and the first rendez-vous would have no sequel, the serial would remain unfinished.
On stage, though, at night, he would become a different man and regain all his grandness. The daily havoc he was condemned by the high direction to play among queens, marchionesses or housemaids would be consolation enough for him; but his gestures remained blank and the poor man, after he had loved so much for show and on command, one day felt the real fire of love.
A shiny smile like the flicker of a lightspot that flourished on the ruddy lips of a neighbour, who had not known until then what a rabbit’s foot, a jar of cold cream of a carmine pencil was, made him lean his pale cheek, with a natural move, against a stave of the fence.
Nature, this eternal and skillful suitor, had livened up the scenery, painted the trees with chlorophyll, washed clean the sliding ceiling of the sky, untied the tongue of birds, so that the poor man had completely lost his mind…
But he had no guitar, like a minstrel, Romeo’s mantle was at the props storage, the verve of Manara was at home in an old manuscript, he had lost the grandness and seduction of Lovelace in the reflex of a mirror, twenty years before.
Nature, though, taking note of his vacillation, took upon itself to round off its charm and set loose the wind, which, passing over the balcony where the neighbour smiled so gracefully, animated the black locks on her forehead, shook the petals of the flowers in the yard and blew all the fragrances of Spring full in his face.
Encouraged, he who had been so many lovers and had made so many imaginary victims, sketched a gesture but, feeling it was not his own and he had used it once for a part, left it suspended in the air. He tried then to express in words what the gesture could not, but his mouth remained open and he could not utter a thing, remembering that the words he was about to say were Romeo’s in the third scene or the marquis of Priola’s in the second act.
But his bosom was full and warm with love, and he was nowhere, love called him and his true ego was unable to find itself. Nature threw at him all voluptuousness of Spring and, poor man, having always lived by the artificial light of the stage, was ashamed of sunlight. But, like a scoffing reply to these sad thoughts, a clear laughter purled from among the flowers and the adorable silhouette of the last diva vanished from the balcony…
And, sad like poor Schlemihl, he who had not lost his shadow, but had lost himself, pulled his creased face off the fence stave and went away with dallied step towards his artificial world.

(Dimitrie Anghel, cca. 1910)

[Gruto]

That's a nice story, but authenticity is the name of a stage as well. A man of style knows when authenticity is wanted, and he delivers it. Think of Reagan

[Costi]

When you relegate authenticity itself to a mere department of show biz, that's about the final stage. How sad... Perhaps my translation is terrible or you couldn't bear it to the end, as the point of the story is precisely that: the stylish actor acted so much all his life that, when he wanted to deliver authenticity for once, it was nowhere to be found anymore...
But I guess some have very little to lose in the first place...

[Rowly]

the adorable silhouette of the last diva vanished from the balcony…
And, sad like poor Schlemihl, he who had not lost his shadow, but had lost himself, pulled his creased face off the fence stave and went away with dallied step towards his artificial world.

A superb translation. How shallow!....she not only reduced to a silhouette, but that of a diva, whose identity depends on the attention of others..and he, reduced to a shadow in his artificial world. All image and skin deep. Where is the inner beauty that needs to shine through for style to exist? Or any other worthwhile human value, for that matter?

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires:
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

Thomas Carew

[Gruto]

When you relegate authenticity itself to a mere department of show biz, that's about the final stage. How sad... Perhaps my translation is terrible or you couldn't bear it to the end, as the point of the story is precisely that: the stylish actor acted so much all his life that, when he wanted to deliver authenticity for once, it was nowhere to be found anymore...
But I guess some have very little to lose in the first place...

I don't disagree with the moralism of the story, and that we should aim to be ourselves, authentic etc., and that style comes from people, who follow that tune. However, I am still convinced that "being ourselves" and style is a sort of performance and interaction, and that we cannot speak about it without including the stage, room, or medium which frames or filters it. To be free for real, we should face what binds us.

[NJS]

"To be free for real we should face what binds us." It sounds good - but what on earth does it mean? Moreover, 'freedom' deserves its own thread at least but what does freedom have to do with style? For example: was Nelson Mandela less stylish when he was locked up? There's a lot of pretentious mumbo-jumbo going on here.

[Costi]

I guess inner freedom, NJS...
Nothing binds us, it is a false problem in my view. We are LINKED - fortunately - but not bound. I don't WANT to be free from some arbitrary bounds that tie me down (as in your Pinocchio parallel), I AM free, linked as I am to all that surrounds me. My links connect me to countless possibilities - if I see them as bounds, it is MY problem. Nobody can concede freedom to someone who doesn't FEEL free. Freedom of spirit, of course, because you can put Nelson Mandela behind bars, but that doesn't take away his inner freedom, as Nicholas reminds us.
Moreover - to bring a smile to the discussion, but I'm at least half serious - this freedom a la Pinocchio is all relative: who says that it isn't the puppeteer who is really not free? Because those strings exist, instead of finding pleasure in smoking a cigar (ahem!), he gets busy at the other end of the strings, occupied to operate the puppet. In fact the puppet can keep the puppeteer busy for hours and hours... Did you ever "play with a cat" and wondered after a while if it isn't really the cat playing with you? The puppeteer may control the puppet physically (and you could say he is free because he can turn his back and go away at any time, unlike the puppet), but the puppet controls his mind, doesn't it? What else keeps him there, attached to the strings?
You may be pulling the strings, controling how people react to you by artuflly influencing their perceptions (masks, charms, manners - whatever), but in fact you are letting THEM take control of your mind because you are always busy thinking about how you are perceived, how you interact, what they think - you become dependant on their reactions, a social junky who no longer has time to think about himself. You may one day find yourself wondering if you are at the active or passive end of the strings...

[Gruto]

Did you ever "play with a cat" and wondered after a while if it isn't really the cat playing with you? The puppeteer may control the puppet physically (and you could say he is free because he can turn his back and go away at any time, unlike the puppet), but the puppet controls his mind, doesn't it? What else keeps him there, attached to the strings?
You may be pulling the strings, controling how people react to you by artuflly influencing their perceptions (masks, charms, manners - whatever), but in fact you are letting THEM take control of your mind because you are always busy thinking about how you are perceived, how you interact, what they think - you become dependant on their reactions, a social junky who no longer has time to think about himself. You may one day find yourself wondering if you are at the active or passive end of the strings...

Boundaries are not rocks. You may change the stage and the name of the game. It is the dynamics of style. Still, boundaries or strings are there. Your are not in empty space. Pinocchio was thinking just that, and it made him all the more restricted.

The question is this: Can your thoughts and manners, style included, be free of any social influence? In theory, yes, and sometimes on a practical level, typically in extreme situations. In general, no.

It brings me back to the other question above: Show me just one real man of style, who doesn't somehow apply an element of acting incorporating a shared world that other people can relate to.