Dark Academia

 

I made mention of Dark Academia earlier when I discussed Donna Tartt’s debut novel, The Secret History. Truth be told, I’d never heard of this aesthetic movement until recently: not surprising, considering where I live, far removed in Northern Ontario.

It’s a new thing, apparently, emerging on Tumblr in 2015 and finding wide appeal with young adults (most notably within higher education) during the dark days of COVID. The fashion of the 1930s and 1940s loom large with its adherents: Oxford collars, Oxford shoes, houndstooth and tweed and all things wool. It earns its name from its colour palette, largely blacks and browns, and darkly red and green.

This is all well and good, but it is actually “new.” It’s not, not to my mind, anyway. This “aesthetic” rises up periodically and has throughout my relatively lengthy life. I recall suits and fedoras becoming fringe fashion during the 1990’s Swing Revival, to say nothing of 1980’s Preppies. Colours change, as does cut, but suits and ties are nothing new; indeed, suits and ties have only fallen out of fashion with the young since the latter 1960s; prior to that, young adults dressed as their parents did (feel free to watch just about any film from the 1950s if you doubt the veracity of this observation). Truth be told, suits and ties have never fallen out of fashion with the business set: it’s the uniform, as it were. Suits and ties only become an aesthetic when adopted by the young.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about this newfound aesthetic. I rather like it. I always have, so much so that I’ve always gravitated towards this newfound aesthetic ever since I’d had disposable cash. This is not to say that others of my generation followed suit. They did not and have not. Most members of my generation, that cohort that slides in betwixt Baby Boomers and GenX (Generation Jones, if I must put a label on it) have lived in plaid and jeans and running shoes, and probably ever will. I have too. And not. I wish I could cite my time away at university for this deviation when I attended university in Southern Ontario, but I did not, however, see a very different fashion sense there, either. I might city might love of classic film for that: Bogie, film noir, Beatniks. I might even cite a night club in working class Sudbury Ontario that required me to buy my first ensemble to conform to their dress code (suits and ties for males, dresses for females). Long story short, I’ve always thought that looks the high watermark of cool. John Hughes taught me that blazers and ties and wingtip shoes were infinitely cooler than running shoes and “relaxed fit” jeans. Time passed and though I still owned my fair share of plaid and 501s, I evolved into Doc Martens, wool turtlenecks, tweed overcoats, and the like. And Ray-Ban’s! All paired with baseball caps – Detroit Tigers, at the time, D for David. Tweed sportscoats would follow.

I’m getting away from the topic at hand, aren’t I. What’s germane here is Dark Academia and whether there is anything new about it. Dark Academia is just a new take on an old desire for an elevated sense of style. Perhaps it’s a rebellion against the slow devolution of elegance. Against PJ loungewear, yoga pants, and the chaotic, cacophonic of fast-fashion.

But is Dark Academia merely a desire to elevate wardrobe. There are those who profess this newfound aesthetic to be a redressing of life, a “longing for the picturesque at all costs”, as Donna Tartt says in The Secret History. They are terribly Beatnik in their desire to drink coffee and read poetry, although their tastes tend towards Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley and not Allan Ginsberg, to Jane Austen and Dickens and Oscar Wilde and not Jack Kerouac and Ken Kensey. They embrace Shakespeare! So too Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and the works of E.M. Forester. Do you see a trend? They lean towards Victorian and Romantic ages. One wonders if this grew out of their from having grown up watching Harry Potter films. That may be, but Harry Potter is a long way from Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. That’s a good thing. Harry Potter is good – I love Harry Potter – but Harry Potter is not on par with Donna Tartt’s contemporary literary novel.

Why do I keep referring to The Secret History? Because that novel looms rather large with this aesthetic set.

Is Dark Academia the only aesthetic? Apparently not. There is a Light version, as well. And further subdivisions, if I believe the YouTube videos I’ve been prompted to pursue. I wonder if there is much difference. Or whether it matters if there is. I expect not. What does it matter if one reads more Jane Austen or Emily Bronte, or prefers Brideshead Revisited to Bleak House? As to their colour palette and fashion choice, I believe it matters little whether one prefers beige cardigans and dark brown or black. It’s mere dressing. What matters is its approach. And its intent.

“Over time, "aesthetic" has evolved from an academic word and something utilized by artists and auteurs to something to categorize our own identities by. It can mean both personal style and a vague stand-in for beauty.” Sara Spelling, Vogue, May 2021.

Sadly, these aesthetics have found criticism. Some believe them shallow. Others decry their perceived Eurocentrism. Their lack of diversity, etcetera. Shall I criticize the critics? What is wrong with pursuing the Western Canon? Its music is rich, its literature profound. Yes, one might damn it as the product of white males, for the most part; but it also embraces Mary Shelly, Jane Austen, the Brontes, Elizabeth Gaskell, and others. If you are literate in Western classical music, you will discover feminine composers, too, Clara Schumann, for one. One is only limited to one’s imagination. And one’s prejudices.

One need not confine oneself to products of the 18^th and 19^th centuries – although one would not be disappointed by any Art produced during the Enlightenment or Victorian Age – one might find a great deal of wonderful works in the 20^th century as well: James Baldwin, Alice Walker, Miles Davis and Duke Ellington, to mention a few. Or contemporaries like Jon Batiste. Nothing is stopping you. No one is stopping you. There is nothing wrong with embracing whatever Eurocentric or North American works you desire; but I am biased: I am a product of their legacy.

I do wonder how long lived this aesthetic will be. Fads come and go, after all. It’s probably not even be widespread, however prevalent it is on the internet. Indeed, I’ve no clue how popular it is, really. I live too far north for it to have taken any root here. I do wish it had, though. Perhaps it will creep north as the decades pass if this aesthetic has any legs. Time will tell. 

I, myself, if I may be so bold as to say, beat its curve. I’ve always leaned towards something akin to it. And still do. People took note of my personal aesthetic, my style, as it were. A few even remarked that I was brave to stand out, as I did. I’d not thought about it much. I liked what I liked. That remains true in the music I listen to, an ever evolving animal that has embraced classic and yacht rock, New Wave, Ska, Reggae, Alternative, Grunge, the American Songbook, Swing, Classical, and Jazz over the years. I could say the same of my choice of literature: Tolkien, SF, Beat, the Expats, History and Philosophy, Poetry, Pynchon, Salinger, DFW, and Donna Tartt.

What does it matter. Not a jot. And everything. It’s all personal. But it is also what we project into the world. One might say we all don masks, but I wonder if that is true. We all don an aesthetic; one we hope will attract like souls with whom we hope to alleviate the loneliness we all feel inside.

 

The Secret History

Every so often a novel comes along that astonishes the reader in me. It’s been a while since one captivated me as this one did, the last being House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski. This is not to say that I have not read some truly wonderful works, because I have, most notably Wuthering Heights, and The Meaning of Night, by Michael Cox, among others. (I should put down my thoughts about them too, and perhaps I will later.) This work by Danna Tartt, published in 1992, drew me in far more thoroughly, though, much like HoL did.

This was a first reading for me of Donna Tartt’s debut novel, which surprises me. Maybe not, given my preferences and prejudices throughout the years. I was aware of it when it was released – who could not have been, considering the fanfare with which it was heralded – but did not pick it up then – I’ve no idea why, given that at that time I was turning away from the Fantasy novels I had hitherto been reading with far too much abandon, and doing so with rapid passion. Fantasy had lost its luster for me by then, it had become banal, no longer the philosophical parables that Michael Moorcock and his like had created, devolving instead into the shallow bloodletting spectacles that appalled me. I was by then far more interested in novels like Generation X, by Douglas Coupland, and its like. So, it does come as a surprise to me now that I did not purchase this book when it was released. Perhaps it was because it revolved around university students, and I was no longer that age. I didn’t want to read about young adults when I wasn’t one anymore. Go figure. Did I mention my proclivity towards prejudice?

I have since set that reticence aside, if reticence it was – which it obviously was. Why? For a number of reasons. I was somewhat surprised to discover it was not set in the 1990s at all (its contemporary time) but almost a decade prior to its publication. One wonders then if I was newly drawn to it for nostalgic reasons, a desire to revisit the 1980s, which could not possibly be, not realising that at time of purchase. I did so because, all these decades later, the novel has a certain zeitgeist with the Dark Academia subculture. (What is Dark Academia? That’s another discussion.) Why were they so captivated by it, I wondered? Inquiring minds want to know.

I picked the book up. And Thank God I did. It is wonderful. A page turner. Its prose flows. Almost poetically. That said, it is literary. And complex. So very complex. There’s a great deal going on betwixt the covers, perhaps more than most readers might realise on first reading. Indeed, one must read carefully to divine the subtext suffused in what is said, both in the narrator’s remembrances, and the dialogue between the characters. Indeed, he is a bit of an unreliable narrator at first, a necessity in a novel that is a bit of a mystery, about events disclosed nearly a decade after their happening. It’s something of a Confession, a literary style that seems less in favour now than it once was. Richard wishes to paint himself in a good light, but also a highly critical one, confessing that he has “a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.” He is also tortured by guilt, declaring that “I might have had any number of stories, but now there is only one. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell.” That is all terribly dramatic, but other than in this confessional form, he could never possibly tell it to anyone, could he. To do so would land him in prison.

That's dire, isn't it? What then did he do that is so terrible? What is The Secret History about? Murder. But it is so much more. There is a great deal of Greek philosophy and theatrical play woven within: most notably Euripides’ Bacchae, and Plato, which is no surprise, given our cast of characters’ major, the Classics. There are also innumerable references to modern classic literature too: Gatsby, T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, etc... Donna Tartt was an English Lit major, so it’s not surprising that there would be. Write what you know, as they say.

I am not giving anything away when I tell you the novel begins with a group of student murdering one of their classmates. That's the issue, isn’t it, when deciding what to reveal when discussing a novel: what to reveal. To discuss what lies within invites spoilers; too much revelation soils the enjoyment of the experience. It’s a conundrum. I want to speak at length on this book, I want to give my insights. I do have them, some I’d arrived at on my own, others I’d gleaned from what had been written about it by others prior, and explorations made on the vast number of YouTube reviews posted online (read and viewed after completing the book, I should add). I won’t though. You can dive down that rabbit hole on you’re own, should you wish to, if you haven't already. Suffice it to say that Donna Tartt’s debut novel is not a who-done-it, but a why-done it, played out by a brilliant cast of characters.

That personae dramatis are as follows:

Richard Papen, a Californian of modest means who transfers to Hampden University (Barrington University), Vermont, to escape the life he was born to: poverty, toil, drudgery.

Henry Winter, the unofficial leader of Richards very small community of Julian Morrow’s exclusive students. He’s brilliant by any standard, and horribly naïve and ill-informed outside his interests.

Fransis Abernathy, old money, the supposed ideal of confidence and generosity.

Charles and Camilla Macauley, the charming orphaned fraternal twins that Richard is most drawn to from the outset.

Edmund “Bunny” Corcoran, the dyslexic jokester who ultimately facilitates Richard’s invitation to this exclusive cadre of select students. Also, our victim of murder.

And finally, Julian Morrow, the eccentric professor who teaches out small, select group of acolytes. One might wonder why I bother to include Julian here; he appears to barely appear in the book, but while his presence is indeed sparse, he is always present – in fact, one might say that the story begins and ends with him, he’s everywhere, and our main cast more often than not ask “What would Julian think” throughout the story.

There are others, but these are the most important. Richard is drawn to these select “freaks,” as his fellow Hampden students refer to them. They are attractive, brilliant, cultured, suave, charismatic. He will do anything, in fact, to be counted among them.

But nothing as it seems. To disclose why would be to deny you enjoyment of this brilliant work. It’s funny. Sometimes awkward. Always surprising.

 

This book was very much a nostalgic trip for me. I could very much empathise with Richard. Indeed, I could have been Richard. I did not grow up poor, but neither did he, not really. His father owns a garage. He’s working class. But he aspires for more. Thus, university. Sadly, being working class, his parents (then) do not see the value of education. Thus, he has to make his own way without their support, personal or financial. 

As to his hopeless longing for the picturesque, I shared it. I soon found myself embraced by tweed and overcoats after attending college (while, actually, if tentatively). They were paired with Doc Martens, not brogues, topped by baseball caps (most notably the Detroit Tigers then – D for David). I read a great deal – SF, mostly; not classics then (that would follow, beginning with Dickens). Few I knew read as I did, and I imagined myself more literate than most in my neck of the woods. I suppose I started down a more literary path when introduced to Hemingway. 

I'm getting away from what is germane here: You don’t have to have a working knowledge of Greek philosophy to enjoy this book. Nor do you have to have a love of Dickens or Gatsby or Hemingway, or Homer, although you will have a greater appreciation of what lies within if you do read the Classics, Greek and Modern. All you really have to have is a love of reading. It is a journey well worth your time. I do hope you spend it here. Donna Tartt is a treasure to experience.