|
|
|
|
Thrift Store Dandyism as a
Metaphysical Performance
Contrasts, Novelty, Self-Expression
No one would say that I am preoccupied with fashion. But I do appreciate the thrift store dandy, who struts with a certain flair—not because they follow trends, but because they compose themselves, layer by layer, as a kind of wearable poem. A mismatched velvet blazer, a tie with a story, shoes that have danced through decades. It’s not about looking good in a conventional sense, but about making something beautiful from the discarded, the forgotten, the odd. There’s something soulful in that—something creative and subversive.
Indeed, thrift store dandyism is very Whiteheadian in spirit: a constructive use of the discarded, the forgotten, and the odd (the many), brought together in concrescence into a new reality (becoming one), adding something novel to the universe (increased by one), and then shared with others through superjection.
Dandyism as a Metaphysical Performance
Dandyism is more than fashion; it is metaphysics in motion. Drawing on key ideas in Whitehead’s philosophy, we can understand dandyism as a form of metaphysical performance—a way of becoming that externalizes inner immediacy, explores contrast, offers propositions, evokes emotional resonance, and participates in the creative advance into novelty.
First, consider Whitehead’s idea that each subject of experience becomes a superject—a self-objectification that influences the world. Dandies perform this becoming with sartorial flair: their subjective immediacy is made public in the ways they dress and carry themselves.
Second is the notion of contrast—not simple opposition, but the creative tension of complementary elements held together in surprising ways. Dandies are masters of contrast, combining elegance and decay, tradition and rebellion, subtlety and flamboyance.
Third is the concept of a proposition, which for Whitehead is not just a verbal statement but a “lure for feeling”—a suggested possibility for how life might be lived. Dandyism functions as such a lure, inviting the world to imagine alternative modes of identity, beauty, and expression.
Fourth is subjective form—the emotions and tonal qualities with which we prehend the world—which are central to dandyism’s power. A dandy evokes surprise, irony, admiration, even joy or discomfort.
And fifth is the idea of the creative advance into novelty: the universe’s unfolding through fresh possibilities and new forms. Dandies, in their originality and refusal to conform, express this cosmic impulse toward the new.
Of course, thrift store dandyism is but one form. There are, in fact, many forms of dandyism, each with its own constellation of contrasts, lures, and emotions. The classic dandy, like Beau Brummell, embraces elegance and restraint as a subtle rebellion. The decadent dandy, epitomized by Oscar Wilde, turns life into performance through theatrical flair and aesthetic excess. The bohemian dandy, melancholic and poetic, channels romantic gloom and rebellious beauty. There is also the punk dandy, who shreds convention with safety pins and irony; the art school dandy, who plays with vintage and avant-garde mashups; and the gothic dandy, whose brooding elegance whispers of velvet shadows and existential longing. The jazz-age dandy moves with glamour and rhythm, while the country dandy parodies or inhabits rural aristocracy. Finally, the queer dandy—from Claude Cahun to Janelle Monáe—embodies a fluid, genre-defying style that reveals identity as an ongoing creation. Each of these dandies is not only a fashion statement but also a metaphysical experiment—testing the boundaries of becoming, exploring new contrasts, embodying fresh propositions, and inviting new emotional responses.
What unites all these types is a commitment, conscious or not, to novelty—to taking what has come before and turning it, twisting it, queering it, glamorizing it, or resisting it in order to offer something new. Dandyism is, at heart, a celebration of the possible. And in society, the dandy plays the role of both mirror and provocateur—reflecting the cultural moment while unsettling its norms, inviting others to see, feel, and become differently. Each dandy, by stepping onto the street as onto a stage, contributes to the universe’s creative advance. In this sense, dandyism is not a retreat from the world, but an offering to it—a playful, poignant, sometimes biting contribution to the shared fabric of becoming. The dandy lives forward, performing each moment as if it were an act of metaphysical improvisation. And it is.
Indeed, thrift store dandyism is very Whiteheadian in spirit: a constructive use of the discarded, the forgotten, and the odd (the many), brought together in concrescence into a new reality (becoming one), adding something novel to the universe (increased by one), and then shared with others through superjection.
Dandyism as a Metaphysical Performance
Dandyism is more than fashion; it is metaphysics in motion. Drawing on key ideas in Whitehead’s philosophy, we can understand dandyism as a form of metaphysical performance—a way of becoming that externalizes inner immediacy, explores contrast, offers propositions, evokes emotional resonance, and participates in the creative advance into novelty.
First, consider Whitehead’s idea that each subject of experience becomes a superject—a self-objectification that influences the world. Dandies perform this becoming with sartorial flair: their subjective immediacy is made public in the ways they dress and carry themselves.
Second is the notion of contrast—not simple opposition, but the creative tension of complementary elements held together in surprising ways. Dandies are masters of contrast, combining elegance and decay, tradition and rebellion, subtlety and flamboyance.
Third is the concept of a proposition, which for Whitehead is not just a verbal statement but a “lure for feeling”—a suggested possibility for how life might be lived. Dandyism functions as such a lure, inviting the world to imagine alternative modes of identity, beauty, and expression.
Fourth is subjective form—the emotions and tonal qualities with which we prehend the world—which are central to dandyism’s power. A dandy evokes surprise, irony, admiration, even joy or discomfort.
And fifth is the idea of the creative advance into novelty: the universe’s unfolding through fresh possibilities and new forms. Dandies, in their originality and refusal to conform, express this cosmic impulse toward the new.
Of course, thrift store dandyism is but one form. There are, in fact, many forms of dandyism, each with its own constellation of contrasts, lures, and emotions. The classic dandy, like Beau Brummell, embraces elegance and restraint as a subtle rebellion. The decadent dandy, epitomized by Oscar Wilde, turns life into performance through theatrical flair and aesthetic excess. The bohemian dandy, melancholic and poetic, channels romantic gloom and rebellious beauty. There is also the punk dandy, who shreds convention with safety pins and irony; the art school dandy, who plays with vintage and avant-garde mashups; and the gothic dandy, whose brooding elegance whispers of velvet shadows and existential longing. The jazz-age dandy moves with glamour and rhythm, while the country dandy parodies or inhabits rural aristocracy. Finally, the queer dandy—from Claude Cahun to Janelle Monáe—embodies a fluid, genre-defying style that reveals identity as an ongoing creation. Each of these dandies is not only a fashion statement but also a metaphysical experiment—testing the boundaries of becoming, exploring new contrasts, embodying fresh propositions, and inviting new emotional responses.
What unites all these types is a commitment, conscious or not, to novelty—to taking what has come before and turning it, twisting it, queering it, glamorizing it, or resisting it in order to offer something new. Dandyism is, at heart, a celebration of the possible. And in society, the dandy plays the role of both mirror and provocateur—reflecting the cultural moment while unsettling its norms, inviting others to see, feel, and become differently. Each dandy, by stepping onto the street as onto a stage, contributes to the universe’s creative advance. In this sense, dandyism is not a retreat from the world, but an offering to it—a playful, poignant, sometimes biting contribution to the shared fabric of becoming. The dandy lives forward, performing each moment as if it were an act of metaphysical improvisation. And it is.
The Thrift Store Dandy
A Practice of Presence
If you are like me, you may sometimes think that appearances are superficial—mere decoration—unless accompanied by something called “depth.” But you forget, as I do, that surface itself may be a kind of depth. That a gesture, a color, a fold of fabric can carry the weight of presence. That the way someone dresses is not always vanity—it may be a form of saying without speaking: Here I am. One of many, yes. But one among many—singular, composed, alive. In a world that often tries to flatten us, reduce us, erase us into abstraction, to show up in style may be an act of courage. A kind of visibility. A way of being counted. Not as more than others, but as one who dares to shape the self into a surface that reflects something inward: care, defiance, joy, mystery. A theology of fabric. A philosophy of presence. A whisper: I am here. Still becoming. Still mine.
Quiet Dandyism
This way of being present is a form of quiet dandyism. Recall that “dandyism” is the name for a movement that began in the late 18th and early 19th centuries—first in England with figures like Beau Brummell, and soon after in France, with writers like Baudelaire—where style was elevated to a personal philosophy. The dandy was not merely concerned with fashion, but with form as selfhood, with the idea that life could be composed like a poem, lived with precision, irony, and grace. Dandyism, at its heart, is about presence as protest, surface as statement, and elegance as resistance. It resists erasure by showing up beautifully. It answers invisibility with poise. In its quieter forms, it is not flamboyant but intentional, not loud but utterly clear. It whispers, I choose how I appear because I choose how to be. And in that choice, there is dignity—a dignity that belongs not only to the privileged, but to anyone who dares to wear their becoming on their sleeve.
Flamboyant Dandyism
Of course, there is a place in life for flamboyant dandyism, too—for the feathered hat, the radiant colors, the bold strut down the sidewalk like a saxophone solo in human form. Flamboyance is not vanity. It is exuberant visibility. It says: Not only am I here, but I am here in full color. In a world that too often demands we shrink ourselves to fit its gray tones, flamboyant dandyism expands. It breaks open space for joy, for theatricality, for the sacred art of being too much. It is a cousin to drag, to carnival, to the flowering tree that blossoms even in concrete. It is courage dressed in velvet and sequins. And it is not less profound for its sparkle—in fact, its sparkle may be its depth. Where the quiet dandy says, I will not disappear, the flamboyant dandy declares, I will be seen. Both are prayers. Both are poetry. Both are valid expressions of becoming.
Intellectual Dandyism
We best not forget the form of dandyism that lives in the mind: intellectual dandyism. This, too, is a way of being in the world with style—though the garments may be made of ideas rather than cloth. The intellectual dandy moves through thought like a flâneur through city streets, not rushing to conclusions, but savoring the turn of phrase, the glint of paradox, the elegance of an unexpected connection. This kind of dandyism is not pedantry. It is playful erudition, the art of thinking with flair. It values insight, yes—but also timing, tone, and texture. It is Wilde’s epigram, Camus’ cool defiance, Simone Weil’s burning clarity. The intellectual dandy is not consumed by the need to be right, but by the desire to make thought beautiful—to dress arguments in elegance, to carry ideas not like weapons but like well-tailored coats. In this, it shares something with process philosophy itself: a love of nuance, an openness to becoming, a refusal to reduce complexity into dogma. It is dandyism not of surface alone, but of form carried through thought.
The Ethics of Dandyism: Between Self-Expression and Elitism
Dandyism, for all its elegance, is not immune to critique. It walks a fine line between liberating self-expression and class-based performance. Historically, it emerged in contexts of aristocratic decline and bourgeois rise, and at times it risked becoming a game of exclusion—where only those with leisure, wealth, or social access could afford to cultivate style as art. It could, and still can, function as a coded signal of superiority, a shield of taste worn to distinguish the “refined” from the “ordinary.”
But this is not the only possible dandyism. Nor is it the truest. There is also the dandyism of the street, of the thrift store, of inherited coats and borrowed time. This is dandyism not as elitist display but as reclamation. It says: I may not have much, but what I have, I wear with intention. It is not about owning more—it is about choosing carefully, and showing up with style even when the world would prefer your disappearance.
The ethical dandy, then, is marked not by extravagance but by awareness: aware of their context, of the impression they make, and of the ways style can either build a wall or open a door. The ethical dandy does not dress to dominate, but to participate—to affirm the dignity of surfaces, and in doing so, to affirm the dignity of all who live and become through their appearances.
In this way, dandyism becomes not a performance of class, but an expression of care. It becomes a practice of ethical attention—to oneself, to others, to the texture of life. It does not erase difference but approaches it with humility and imagination.
Quiet Dandyism
This way of being present is a form of quiet dandyism. Recall that “dandyism” is the name for a movement that began in the late 18th and early 19th centuries—first in England with figures like Beau Brummell, and soon after in France, with writers like Baudelaire—where style was elevated to a personal philosophy. The dandy was not merely concerned with fashion, but with form as selfhood, with the idea that life could be composed like a poem, lived with precision, irony, and grace. Dandyism, at its heart, is about presence as protest, surface as statement, and elegance as resistance. It resists erasure by showing up beautifully. It answers invisibility with poise. In its quieter forms, it is not flamboyant but intentional, not loud but utterly clear. It whispers, I choose how I appear because I choose how to be. And in that choice, there is dignity—a dignity that belongs not only to the privileged, but to anyone who dares to wear their becoming on their sleeve.
Flamboyant Dandyism
Of course, there is a place in life for flamboyant dandyism, too—for the feathered hat, the radiant colors, the bold strut down the sidewalk like a saxophone solo in human form. Flamboyance is not vanity. It is exuberant visibility. It says: Not only am I here, but I am here in full color. In a world that too often demands we shrink ourselves to fit its gray tones, flamboyant dandyism expands. It breaks open space for joy, for theatricality, for the sacred art of being too much. It is a cousin to drag, to carnival, to the flowering tree that blossoms even in concrete. It is courage dressed in velvet and sequins. And it is not less profound for its sparkle—in fact, its sparkle may be its depth. Where the quiet dandy says, I will not disappear, the flamboyant dandy declares, I will be seen. Both are prayers. Both are poetry. Both are valid expressions of becoming.
Intellectual Dandyism
We best not forget the form of dandyism that lives in the mind: intellectual dandyism. This, too, is a way of being in the world with style—though the garments may be made of ideas rather than cloth. The intellectual dandy moves through thought like a flâneur through city streets, not rushing to conclusions, but savoring the turn of phrase, the glint of paradox, the elegance of an unexpected connection. This kind of dandyism is not pedantry. It is playful erudition, the art of thinking with flair. It values insight, yes—but also timing, tone, and texture. It is Wilde’s epigram, Camus’ cool defiance, Simone Weil’s burning clarity. The intellectual dandy is not consumed by the need to be right, but by the desire to make thought beautiful—to dress arguments in elegance, to carry ideas not like weapons but like well-tailored coats. In this, it shares something with process philosophy itself: a love of nuance, an openness to becoming, a refusal to reduce complexity into dogma. It is dandyism not of surface alone, but of form carried through thought.
The Ethics of Dandyism: Between Self-Expression and Elitism
Dandyism, for all its elegance, is not immune to critique. It walks a fine line between liberating self-expression and class-based performance. Historically, it emerged in contexts of aristocratic decline and bourgeois rise, and at times it risked becoming a game of exclusion—where only those with leisure, wealth, or social access could afford to cultivate style as art. It could, and still can, function as a coded signal of superiority, a shield of taste worn to distinguish the “refined” from the “ordinary.”
But this is not the only possible dandyism. Nor is it the truest. There is also the dandyism of the street, of the thrift store, of inherited coats and borrowed time. This is dandyism not as elitist display but as reclamation. It says: I may not have much, but what I have, I wear with intention. It is not about owning more—it is about choosing carefully, and showing up with style even when the world would prefer your disappearance.
The ethical dandy, then, is marked not by extravagance but by awareness: aware of their context, of the impression they make, and of the ways style can either build a wall or open a door. The ethical dandy does not dress to dominate, but to participate—to affirm the dignity of surfaces, and in doing so, to affirm the dignity of all who live and become through their appearances.
In this way, dandyism becomes not a performance of class, but an expression of care. It becomes a practice of ethical attention—to oneself, to others, to the texture of life. It does not erase difference but approaches it with humility and imagination.
The Thrift Store Dandy
In the corner of the thrift store stands a figure not trying to blend in. The thrift store dandy doesn’t follow trends—they assemble themselves. Their style isn’t fast fashion or brand obsession. It’s curated contradiction: a velvet blazer over a faded t-shirt, pinstriped trousers with combat boots, a vintage brooch on a moth-eaten lapel. Each piece has a past. The dandy knows this, honors it, and wears it anyway.
This is not vanity. It’s metaphysics in motion.
Whitehead tells us that each actual occasion is a becoming—a process of synthesizing the past into a new, creative advance. The thrift store dandy lives this process. They prehend a hundred forgotten identities from the racks and pull them into a fresh unity. Their body becomes a site of transformation, their look a composition of felt histories.
To dress as a thrift store dandy is to refuse disposability. It’s to say that nothing—and no one—is too old, too broken, too passé to be re-imagined. The dandy rejects the violence of the new-for-new’s-sake. Instead, they enter the marketplace of remnants and perform resurrection.
This aesthetic is inherently theological. In a culture obsessed with optimization and erasure, the thrift store dandy becomes a quiet protest. Like Whitehead’s consequent nature of God, they collect the worn and the wounded, the beautiful and the strange, and bind them together in a momentary expression of value. Not value as currency—but value as becoming.
The thrift store dandy doesn’t dress to impress. They dress to confess:
I am more than one thing. I am a collage of inheritances. I am not finished.
Like the God who lures each moment toward richer intensity, the dandy selects pieces not for perfection but for potential. Their style is a practice of attention, of imagination, of honoring the unfinished nature of all things.
And so, in that cluttered, fluorescent-lit space of forgotten clothes, a quiet revolution walks by in a paisley waistcoat and scuffed Oxfords. A theological aesthetic. A process metaphysic in wool.
This is not vanity. It’s metaphysics in motion.
Whitehead tells us that each actual occasion is a becoming—a process of synthesizing the past into a new, creative advance. The thrift store dandy lives this process. They prehend a hundred forgotten identities from the racks and pull them into a fresh unity. Their body becomes a site of transformation, their look a composition of felt histories.
To dress as a thrift store dandy is to refuse disposability. It’s to say that nothing—and no one—is too old, too broken, too passé to be re-imagined. The dandy rejects the violence of the new-for-new’s-sake. Instead, they enter the marketplace of remnants and perform resurrection.
This aesthetic is inherently theological. In a culture obsessed with optimization and erasure, the thrift store dandy becomes a quiet protest. Like Whitehead’s consequent nature of God, they collect the worn and the wounded, the beautiful and the strange, and bind them together in a momentary expression of value. Not value as currency—but value as becoming.
The thrift store dandy doesn’t dress to impress. They dress to confess:
I am more than one thing. I am a collage of inheritances. I am not finished.
Like the God who lures each moment toward richer intensity, the dandy selects pieces not for perfection but for potential. Their style is a practice of attention, of imagination, of honoring the unfinished nature of all things.
And so, in that cluttered, fluorescent-lit space of forgotten clothes, a quiet revolution walks by in a paisley waistcoat and scuffed Oxfords. A theological aesthetic. A process metaphysic in wool.
Thrift Store Mysticism
Jane is a Whiteheadian street mystic. She doesn’t use the phrase, but she lives by it. She finds God in the concreteness and particularities of life—in the feel of a worn sleeve, in the warmth of a conversation, in the way two people can walk beside each other without speaking and still be close. She believes that every human being is unique, has dignity, and deserves respect - and that includes her.
She is also a thrift store mystic, and something of a dandy. She’s always looking for something with feathers, with odd colors, and with flair—not flashy, but unexpected. Something with character. Something that seems like it’s been waiting for her.
She doesn’t mind if it’s a little worn, a little out of season. In fact, she prefers it that way. Things that have lasted tend to have more to say.
Sometimes she leaves with nothing, and that’s fine.
Sometimes she finds a silk blouse in a strange green that looks like moss in shadow, or a skirt with tiny golden stitches that catch the light like laughter. When she wears them, it isn’t to stand out. It’s just to feel true to herself.
Jane’s style isn’t about display. It’s about alignment—inside and out. A way of saying, without saying: “I am here. I pay attention. I care about how things come together.”
I asked Jane if she thinks the diversity of the world pleases God, and she said:
“Of course. Why else would it be this way? Look at all the shades of green. God’s not a minimalist.”
She laughed gently, as if the question itself had tickled something tender. Then she added:
“God’s got a flair for detail. A love of texture. I think God is delighted by things that don’t quite match—but somehow belong.”
Jane doesn’t quote scripture very often, but when she does, it’s usually something about birds, or lilies, or the least of these. Her theology is sewn from observation and kindness. From sitting on stoops. From watching the way light falls on brick walls at different times of day.
She believes in grace, but not the polished kind. More like the kind you find in old buttons, or in someone’s laugh when they don’t know you’re listening.
Sometimes, when she’s out walking, she’ll stop and look at something—an alley, a crooked fence, a cracked teacup in a window—and just stand there. Not as if she’s confused. As if she’s listening.
If you asked her what she’s doing, she might say:
“Just noticing.”
Which, in her case, is close to prayer.