a crit summer
#8ace00 as the Pantone for a summer, rooted in a festering sadness yet decorated with the promise of revelry that insists on pushing commodification as cure, capitalized meme-ology as medicine. Arial on similarly shaded green of an index heralding the misrepresented, the marginalized reappropriated into a four-letter diluted, lossless cover of a musical cocaine/phonic testament to “me, my flaws, my fuck-ups, my ego all rolled into one”. We are told, by virtue of the summer anthem - the grasping at musical straws of corporate collation - that this is the season to be me, my, me, my, me. It’s brat summer, right? Let’s be naughty. Spoiled. Cheeky. Tank tops, cigarettes, that formerly mentioned shade of color infusing all products to be sold this cycle. But, how can I be “so inspired” when the silver-spooned muses mentioned in lyrical tributes parade Alexander Wang, MAC cosmetics (under the ownership of Ronald Lauder, who cut off financial support to U-Penn - equating Palestinian literary freedom of expression with anti-semitism) and Adidas (three stripes for its infancy in supporting the Nazi party, prolonged support for a West proclaiming truly anti-semitic rhetoric - “I don’t think he meant what he said” defended by Bjørn Gulden, CEO of Adidas - and kicking a Hadid to the editorial curb for being Palestinian). Cigarettes vs. vapes, vapid beef of 30-somethings peddled to 20-somethings, reminiscent marketing schemes of distraction, that once upon a lime time of precursor idolatry were molded, televised, glossy-zined by a mainstream hellbent on framing narrative as truth through the power of its singularity.
It is 2024 and the luminosity has been dulled by the ash of grey that proliferates across pixels of geopolitical genocide pulsating from tiny screens. There is a frustration when atrocity is harped upon constantly. Why the resistance to casual summer play? Why the attacking of careless pop gratification? That’s so killjoy. That’s so spoilsport. Perhaps this hurling of judgement is unfair, especially when aimed at stars who are simply being themselves. Do we not deserve momentary relief? Has the grinch-green transformed me into a critic - one who would never have statues built of ? (I’ll submit to this fate, considering the excessive undertone that is umbilical to these effigies of self-importance). The reality is that both time and space have started weighing down in ways that no longer allow for blissful ignorance.
Celebrity gods have been here before. They have been dubbed “revolutionary” for selling sex in sweated product-placements. The devout pay a price for their adoration and a demand is made in exchange for entertainment. Belonging is interwoven with buying power and you, yes - you, with your humanly insecurities can signal a social affiliation. You could be cool, you could be accepted.
Brands writing testament have been here before. They have sweetened their products with appropriated ideas, regurgitated anew, while their benefitting disciples remain embedded within exclusionary structures. I have been mesmerized, transfixed by the high-pitched mania for the Hiltons, the Lohans and the Spears, at first adulation in y2k hysteria, torn down to misogyny-tinged condemnation once the heat was strategically moved off of desert-located other-lands and diversions were no longer needed for the youth.
Perhaps the inability to let loose lies in the chaotic loops that now suffocate the online. The digital courtyard of community banter envelops a global circumference that is overwhelming. Trump states that illegal immigrants are stealing black jobs. Maduro denounces Venezuelan citizens who protest his re-election. Gen-Z’ers are aging faster than millennials (clickbait: 8 skin-care products every woman should use before she turns 30). The City of Cape Town and AirBnB are in talks regarding a collaboration to encourage digital nomads (side post: My family has lived in Bokaap since the 40’s and we’ve all been driven out by gentrification) (advert: Are you a homeowner on the Atlantic Seaboard? Make extra income in $ and €!). Be so Brat, Here are the Top Ten Outfit Must-Haves in the Must-Hue for this Sizzling Summer (hyperlinks, hyperlinks, hyperlinks). With Gaza’s death toll over 40,000, here’s the conflict by numbers. The West provoked Russian invasion of Ukraine, claims Farage. Imane Khelif is accused of being a man after knocking down Italian opponent who wanted to win Olympic gold for her dead father (image: Meloni delicately holds the face of Carini (said Italian opponent) in a compassionate, motherly gesture) (read more: Elon Musk and J.K. Rowling wage the war against transgender athletes). Far-right clash with Muslims in rioting (Daily Telegraph headline complete with image of the blonde British Amber Rutter cradling her baby son, the Union Jack sewn on her sleeve - foreground focused). Charli XCX Had a Very Brat Birthday Party (post: Charli XCX and Lorde work it out, xoxo).
The algorithm is clearly working hard to accommodate political leanings and manipulate the age / gender profile for click-through conversions. And so, square posts broadcasting news of Palestinian prisoners being sodomized by members of the IDF are placed alongside all the brat paraphernalia pushing being a hot, messy girl as priority number one. My attempts to curate this stream fall flat, ‘Not Interested’ goes unanswered. Capsule announces ‘WTF Is ‘Brat Summer’… and Why the Gen Z Trend Might Actually be EXACTLY What We (Yes, Even Us Millennials & Gen X’s) Need’ as ‘a rebellion against the basic bitch curation that’s dominated our feeds for so long’ and ‘wearing the same outfit every day because you can’ whilst thoughtfully including ‘Glamour helpfully pulled together a list of key items that help you look brat…’. British Vogue proclaims that ‘Charli XCX’s album Brat has captured the zeitgeist this summer’. Seemingly, the defining spirit of a 2024 summer sits comfortably in maintaining a status quo of commodified celebration.
#8ace00 backdropping ‘kamala hq’ as Kamala’s reach for relevancy with younger potential voters. A reply back on X from the creator herself - ‘kamala IS brat’ - indicates acceptance of this homage. Interestingly, the only prominent backlash delivered by the fans was a dissatisfaction with this political / cultural merger.
‘Like, can we not have this one thing?’
‘Why must everything become political?’
This last, noticeably repeated, comment reverberates across and points to a divide we’re increasingly confronted by, conflicted with. It is telling that this is where the line is drawn. The people have come for the party, not for the politics. These people are not the same people who have to experience the politics coming for them. These people simply want the golden halo of days unfazed by the commotion of the outer, the othered realities, that to some have become a downright nuisance to the good ol’ times of unquestioned hedonism. Pop is that safe bubble space of manufactured easiness. Those who come here may remain in their lane of comfort. There will be no Strange Fruit denouncing southern violence nor Army Dreamers lamenting the casualties of military endeavors. Perhaps there could have been, perhaps along the stream of algorithmic prevalence these slight voices of resistance were drowned, dumped in favor of more upbeat anthems. Located in the Western belt of Europe, perhaps these streams are geo-specific and not indicative of a broader picture.
There are many probabilities and the onus of this rant is not to single out one star (as this formula is multiplied across, this just happens to be the most recent of marketing ploys), nor is it to reject musical ability or work ethic but it is to word the discomfort that resides within being force-fed a more palatable (read: festive, self-indulgent, ready to spend on all the affiliated brands) package as culture-changing prophet by American and British publishers whilst they demurely avoid stories regarding their own governments supplying arms used to incinerate children seeking shelter in schools or confront the fact that most of their advertised luxury brands have strong ties to the current Israeli government. There will be limited sanctions. In ten or twenty years, once the dust has settled and history can be contained within archives, these same publishers will be sure to include critical pieces with the sub headlines ‘How could this ever happen?’. As Palestinians find only body parts after the Fajr massacre, they weigh up each person by a measurement of 70kg.
There is a limit to our Jouissance.
An Arts of the Working Class newspaper headline reads on a Berlin, August, Tuesday morning. The spirit of these times feels more gangrene than glorious. That four-lettered word generally given to children unaware of externalities, as a notion - as a cultural movement, does not feel empowering nor revolutionary, nor worthy of reclamation. It conjures imagery of hyper-focus on the self as center of the universe, of lacquering vividly-colored terms of ‘feminist’, ‘intergenerational trauma’, ‘underground’ whilst maintaining an exclusive inner circle of privilege and promoting the individual as savior.
The #e0218a blistering pink of a 2023 summer, steeped in fast-fashion consumerism and mediated hype, has been replaced by the #8ace00 of a 2024 season peddling ‘a nuclear green oil spill on our summer beaches’ as the revolution we currently need. Seasonal dreams of fitting in no longer seem as appealing when massacres are being live-streamed. It’s no longer as simple as it was to accept the words ‘revolution’ and ‘resistance’ nestled in a pop culture that remains reluctant to question the alliances it protects and sells.