Mexico City's Hipsters and Creativity

crystal

I’ve been thinking lately about fashion and class. It’s Mario’s fault. He’s the kind of friend you can sit down with for hours over a few microbrews to discuss the evolution of advanced capitalism through the lens of hipster fashion. I’m still not really sure what that means, but the man does have great taste in beer and threads, and he has me thinking about a thing or two. I live in Condesa, not far from the border with Roma, hipster mecca of Mexico City. It’s where you find people dressed like this.

It’s one of the few places where my little sister, looking like she does these days, fits right in. Like others in her aesthetic cohort, I’m amazed by the time, energy, and nonchalance that goes into perfecting the image. I love the creativity behind the impulse, and yet am frustrated by the vanity.

Did I mention that just about everything costs double in my neighborhood? Rent, food, a cup of coffee. This is a place for the middle-upper class, the young and the restless, the type of kids with enough money to spend entire days in thrift stores to be seen at parties looking like this:

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Despite the working class, bohemian aesthetic, most of these kids are the sons and daughters of CEO’s and politicians. And most of them were raised in the gated communities of upper-class suburbs like Santa Fe. My theory is that growing up surrounded by suburbs and sitcoms is venom for the creative soul. It’s a plague that affected so much of my generation. So we moved from mass-manufactured, cookie-cutter houses to Silver Lake, the Mission, Williamsburg, West Oakland. But unfortunately, for so many, ‘creativity’ meant dressing up like this to go to parties, to create an ‘alternative scene’

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If only a small percentage of that creativity could be channeled into something that goes beyond supporting beer and cigarette companies.

5 Comments

  1. oso

    Absolutely. And of course the hippies of the 60′s and early 70′s. T.C. Boyle’s Drop City is a wonderful meditation on exactly that.

  2. “most of these kids are the sons and daughters of CEO’s and politicians”. This is not entirely true. Those kids are what we call ‘fresas’. They live in Bosques de las Lomas or Pedregal, go to San Antonio for shopping and andparty at clubs. I believe that hipsters in Mexico are medium class. Sons and daughters of professionals and owners of small businesses.
    But yes, I also see this kind of ‘creativity’ more as a pose than an honest way to express themselves.

  3. oso

    You’re completely right, Dulce. For the most part I exaggerated the class level of most youth who make up DF’s hipster community. On the other hand, if you look at the price tags at hipster stores like Sicario and Soho you’ll see that they’re upper class prices. 

    I think that hipsters attract more popular criticism than fresas because so many of us treat fresas as a lost cause. They are too insulated in their country club social networks to consider doing something creative with their lives to improve society. Hipsters on the other hand seem so close to doing something useful. They are often clearly aware, for example, of urban planning problems in their city, but they talk about these problems over cheap beer rather than doing something that will lead to sustainable change.

    I’m writing this at Pase Usted, by the way, which has me filled with optimism. And at least 30% of the people here could be described as hipsters (including me!).

  4. is booger still with you? bring her!

  5. Or as Hemingway put it:

    Someone asked Georgette to dance, and I went over to the bar. It was really very hot and the accordion music was pleasant in the hot night. I drank a beer, standing in the doorway and getting the cool breath of wind from the street. Two taxis were coming down the steep street. They both stopped in front of the Bal. A crowd of young men, some in jerseys and some in their shirtsleeves, got out. I could see their hands and newly washed, wavy hair in the light from the door. The policeman standing by the door looked at me and smiled. They came in. As they went in, under the light I saw white hands, wavy hair, white faces, grimacing, gesturing, talking. With them was Brett. She looked very lovely and she was very much with them.

    One of them saw Georgette and said: “I do declare. There is an actual harlot. I’m going to dance with her, Lett. You watch me.”

    The tall dark one, called Lett, said: “Don’t you be rash.”

    The wavy blond one answered: “Don’t you worry, dear.” And with them was Brett.

    I was very angry. Somehow they always made me angry. I know they are supposed to be amusing, and you should be tolerant, but I wanted to swing on one, any one, anything to shatter that superior, simpering composure. Instead I walked down the street and had a beer at the next Bal….

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