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― Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s
When you move to London you’re confronted with the widest scope of characters imaginable. The quiet reserved bookish types, the arty farty to the hippy dippy and the downright bizarre. When I saw all these people I was in awe at how unique and off the charts they were, both impressed at their “out-there” way of thinking and absolute disregard for how they are perceived. As if it were all really just for them. But once the first glimpse of the untouchable individuals had passed, and I looked for longer than a glance, the dream, so to speak, started to collapse (a little like inception)- a dream within a dream within a dream. Layers and layers of something that did not stick.
Thinking of one case, as I got to unravel this one particular individual, I was amazed at what I thought was a natural charisma, a raw magnetism all as a result of looking and sounding as if they’ve stepped from a world decades ago, their air of you don’t know me and never will, multi-faceted exterior and utter lack of gravity toward THIS reality. But, I became to see the situation for what it was. An impeccably constructed image, but barely even an image it ran much deeper than appearance; an idea. Through voice, and senses and attire, the pauses between their spoken words- each carefully thought out so as to exude a breathy sumptuousness that none is born with; that part should have at least been apparent.
Stumbling upon the reality of what they WERE as opposed to what they had formulated, I could not buy into it any longer. However, whether this was my own issues or not, I began to question the line between being inspired by the movies you love, the music you listen to, the way it makes you feel, the places you’ve been and how you want to completely embody the essence of these things…and question the line between inspiration and transformation of the self. What this train of thought brought me to was an apt quote from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. A Truman Capote line I never really understood until I was confronted with it’s message- ” the real phony”.
As intertwined as the whole thought process became, and as unsure as I was if I was just getting stuck in a line of thought that was irrelevant whatever it’s outcome, I wondered if we were all real phony’s. Whilst I had always thought we were influenced by our likes and loves, I now questioned if my whole persona, much like the phony I had so unforgivingly dissected, was as carefully constructed as theirs. Had I missed that I had been articulating every taste and passion verbally to others, through my appearance and pictures, only to add to an exterior image and perception I wished others to gain of me? Furthermore, were those typically handsome bearded men, the coffee drinkers, the bookish types that I had lusted over (and still do really) as some romantic “idea” been an “idea” themselves? Was anyone a true reflection of themselves, because of just loving the things they loved… without becoming them? And in fact…was this even possible?
Nonetheless, why did it matter if I, or they, were a phony…
because in the end, at least they’re a real phony?
