Commodifying Poverty

The careful assemblage of moving pieces that makes up our known history. Systemic colorblind racism, toxic masculinity, Western colonization, and class discrimination, among a host of other destructionary practices, have shaped who gets to wear what—and get away with it. In this post-industrial age of consumption, all you need is the spending power to get a good costume and, of course, be born into whiteness to be cool. When done correctly, you can seemingly transcend class and status.

We have entered an era of culture-based conflict that has the uncanny power of camouflaging the underlying and dominating powers that shape our lived reality. This is no accident. The very idea of “the hipster” emerged through the writing of Norman Mailer in his essay The White Negro: Superficial Reflections on the Hipster in 1957. In it, Mailer connects the lifestyle and aesthetic choices of the beatniks to a white desire to embody marginalized black culture. The contemporary hipster culture has its roots in a white disaffection with 20th century American capitalism. Post-World War II era youths were disheartened by the prospect of doing consumerist managerial work, but also would not partake in working-class labor, a choice unavailable to their non-white counterparts. To be a maker or an artist or a writer, however, was a way to opt out of the system entirely.

By borrowing from African American culture and positioning themselves as class non-conforming and by appropriating working class style, hipsters could choose to never inhabit the consumerist world. The “white negro” was the original hipster, a borrower of culture, repackaged and displayed for white consumption and ownership. This must be understood as a type of violence, a radical form of cultural appropriation. The contemporary hipster stands upon a mountain of marginalized black bodies that were once the manifesters of forced and underappreciated creativity.

The difference between the black jazz artists and white beatniks of the 1960s, or the black creatives and white hipsters of the 2000s, is the presence of an invisible hat. Like the invisible backpack, originated by Peggy McIntosh in her groundbreaking essay White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Backpack, the invisible hat allows white people to move through the world easier. It is part of their costume. It validates their authenticity and creativity, and serves as a layer of masking on top of the appropriation lying underneath. But unlike the invisible backpack, the invisible hat is an aesthetic symbol of the creative class; it can be added to any hipster assemblage as an extra dash of style—but only if you’re white. Instead of offering a toolkit to fall back upon, the invisible hat functions as a stamp of validity for “looking poor” or being creative. Without it, we remain unable to discern the homeless man from the kombucha crafter. The invisible hat is only available to white people, but it remains invisible. For this reason, a creative black person is not allotted the same amount of aesthetic leeway as a creative white person. They are unable to fit unquestioned behind the Portland maker-costume, making it seem as though only white people can be the creatives.

The making of costumes—the creation of a consumerized history—is mirrored by destruction. There is only so much fabric available to make costumes, and certain ones must be unmade to make room for the newer and shinier ones—to make room for better ones. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction;the blatant erasure of certain histories, fables, and lived realities is covered up by a hipsterization of history, and a commodification of poverty.

Writing RACHEL HELLMAN

Photography CELIA GERBER

Styling ANJALI REDDY EILEEN CHO

Models AVERY JOHNSON JACK MOORE