By John Paul Jones ‘12
I have never been the kind of person who “discovered” artists long before they were engulfed in the corrupting waves of popularity. The Shins showed me their magic years after they had been fond playmates of the indie underground; I first heard of Kings of Leon with their hit single on the MTV Top 40. As for my favorite artist, Jewel? I only heard of her after the release of her fourth album. Rather than exercise some cultural gift of musical intuition, I have always been content to absorb the songs I like when I may: at a party, on the radio, or on a friend’s iTunes.
Apparently, my lax attentiveness to culture puts me behind the times. Nearly every day I talk with someone who claims to have heard of Feist or Lady GaGa “before they were popular.” It seems that many people see value in being “original”: being one of the first to experiment with a new trend or to appreciate a new cultural phenomenon.
Perhaps life in the Harvard bubble has limited my perception, but this phenomenon of originality seems much more intense among Harvard students than among the good ol’ subdued Midwestern folks of my hometown. Of course (I muse this while listening to Regina Spektor, whose music I first heard two weeks ago—how unoriginal), the need to be original fits with the competitive—perhaps neurotic—mindset of many Harvard students. To be different is to be more deserving, more accomplished, and more interesting.
It seems dismissive to chalk up the desire for originality to competitiveness, however. In fact, it seems more like a desire to be seen as different than to actually be different. This strange preoccupation with image is a time-tested variable—how we are perceived by our peers is not a newly discovered adolescent concern. Yet at a university known for educating industry icons and world leaders, why wouldn’t people strive to be leaders, even if their spheres of leadership were just passing trends?
As one of my blockmates suggested, these fledgling Columbuses may simply strive to be thought of having good taste. Talent scouts, after all, make a living by this—or at least by identifying what has the potential to be popular. Harvard is less known for producing talent scouts than for producing best-selling authors, brilliant mathematicians, and future presidents. That said, it would seem—to my Harvard-trained logic—more effective to stick with one traditional style. Someday, I’m sure, hipster attire will no longer be fashionable, and then the people who wear decently colored and fitted clothes will once again be on top of the style heap. The added benefit: people who adhere to traditional styles do not often fall out of style.
Though, given how I lounge and write this in my blackish skinny jeans and gray-and-black striped sweater (I caught onto hipster fashion long after it became fashionable), I can think of no better theory. Do we value originality because it shows others that we have good taste? Do we value originality because it allows us to confirm our taste to ourselves?
Regardless of motive, this desire to be original is, on the whole, harmless. At worst, it is a petty criticism of someone else’s unoriginality. Still, I cannot criticize the phenomenon with integrity. As I think about it, I wonder if my indifference to being the “first” person I know to do something—to wear this style or to listen to that music—is in itself different, challenging, even original. The thought is pleasing—but again, why? Why does that matter?
Maybe instead of obsessing over new trends, instead of trying to live on the “cutting edge” with our not-yet-realized claims on the future, we should content ourselves with our current interests. The obsession with originality is temporal, and temporal obsessions can be dangerously cyclical; in one week, a month, two years, the same trend that one person discovered will become popular, and that person will strive to find something else “original.” Indeed, the cyclic aspect of the quest for originality is what makes the quest futile.
In the end, we like what we like, and many of our likes change. When we discover that we like something is—and should be—irrelevant.
“You’re an original, baby / Like we’ve never seen before / You’re an original, baby / Turn around and you’re looping at 100 more” – Sheryl Crow
