Making certain sartorial choices—hair dyed green or shaved on the side, a JFA or Diamanda Galás sticker on a three-ring binder, a book by Genet tucked under an arm, dressing up for school like a character from Twin Peaks—these were all signifiers so that we could locate other outsiders quickly. It didn’t mean we shared an entirely similar worldview or that we had grown up with the same set of experiences, but it was something, it was a wink and a nod. Nowadays, leather jackets don’t predict a love of Marlon Brando or the Ramones any more than skinny jeans indicate an affinity with Johnny Thunders or a striped boatneck shirt and pixie cut affirm that one’s a fan of Godard and Breathless. With access to everything, we can dabble without really knowing. I am not bemoaning a diminishing awareness of references, but it’s easier than ever to be divorced from both provenance and predecessors, to essentially be a cultural tease.
