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Children are inherently tacky.
Kids taste cant be trusted because they dont have taste.
The rest of us, though, live in fear of tackiness.
Its consumption that looks like consumption, camp without self-awareness.
If minimalism is hyperconscious hyperselectivity, tacky is clueless excess, conveniently available at any price point.
One runs the risk of having, oneself, produced a very inferior piece of Camp.
Which makes me wonder if theres room for sincerity about tackiness.
Would a Notes on Tacky-style essay bounce right off the leopard and pleather and rebound on the writer?
Its a manifesto of anti-snobbery, equally vehement about corny TV, cheap perfume, and Flavortown.
Kings writing in this collection often feels impetuous and unpolished.
It doesnt work as well when shes stretching her own thesis.
I had never minded being called a slut, she writes.
(They did, to a point.)
Im delighted that King hasnt grown out of her adoration for calorie-rich, nutrient-lite culture.
It was heavenly to be reminded of my own late 90s mall wanderings.
But I do wishTackycared about what tacky really is.
The rest of us laugh with a bitter taste in our mouths: What a dopey waste of millions.
But this kind of tackiness is hardly marginalized.
Arguably, it runs the world.
This is not what King writes about.
She recognizes that tackiness is about longing.
Lurking under any consideration of tackiness is the way that noting it in other people confirms our own superiority.
Beyond personal philosophy, she seestackiness as a bonding mechanism.
Empty shopping bags and cigarette cartons littered the floor.
For a supposedly tacky person, she is awfully self-aware.
