I greeted the launch of David Lynch’s new Club Silencio in rue Montmartre with some suspicion. Not only because I’m one of the few people who think Lynch is overrated (seriously, have you tried sitting through Dune?) but also because the club is likely to attract hipsters.
You all know some hipsters. The boys have tattoos and beards; the girls wear big glasses and smoke a lot. They wear fake vintage clothing and skinny jeans. They often carry scooter helmets. They claim to be creative and original, when in fact they display a singular lack of imagination. Their narrow list of references includes Andy Warhol, Basquiat, Charles Bukowski, Jack Kerouac, Brett Easton Ellis (hipsters like pithy writers because they secretly don’t enjoy reading), The Velvet Underground and obscure indie rock. You can often find them at the Palais de Tokyo, ignoring the art during vernissages. They adoooore New York, particularly Williamsburg. Hipsters pretend to be cool and democratic, when in fact they are insecure and snobbish (by the way, you must pay €780 a year to become a member of Silencio). You’ll find a satirical look at them on the blog The Unknown Hipster.
I may wear spectacles, but I can assure you that I don’t aspire to hipness. I admire eccentrics, but all I ask of most people is that they are true to themselves, rather than treating culture as a shopping list.
