It’s unusual to crave things like kitsch. Anything kitschy is cheap, gimmicky, mass-produced, the very opposite of cool and sophisticated.
And yet, there I was on the Santa Monica Pier the other night, surrounded by a sea of kitsch, and feeling this weird sense of liberation.
Everywhere I turned was another kiosk selling either sticky sweet things or tourist trinkets. I was in tacky heaven and, somehow, it felt great.
As my friend and I made our way to the Ferris Wheel, the joy just increased. Maybe it was a feeling of nostalgia for our family summer trips from Montreal to Wildwood, New Jersey, and its famous boardwalk.
Whatever it was, tackiness aside, the mood was festive. Lots of people strolling, a beautiful sunset, and no one looked uptight.
I read somewhere that our distaste for kitsch stems from a distaste for any kind of emotion that is seen as too sentimental or “sweet.” Kitsch is too corny to take seriously.
But corny does come with a subtle but surprisingly satisfying benefit: It’s innocent. It doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. It’s just there, in its kitschy glory.
The times we’re living in are the opposite of innocent. They are the cynical times, when it’s cool to be snarky. That kind of coolness, however, tends to get exhausting.
Give me kitsch.
