“Taste classifies, and it classifies the classifier. Social subjects, classified by their classifications, distinguish themselves by the distinctions they make, between the beautiful and the ugly, the distinguished and the vulgar, in which their position in the objective classifications is expressed or betrayed.”
I’ve been returning to Pierre Bourdieu quite often lately. I first studied the sociologist’s work, centered around taste as a social construct, in French class as a college sophomore. At the time, surrounded by my frighteningly cosmopolitan silver-spooned classmates, I was playing a losing game to collect signifiers of cultural capital like Pokémon: time abroad, a rudimentary knowledge of French Impressionists, a fondness (if not the budget) for oysters and foie gras…
So it was a bit of a slap in the face to have my own paltry attempts at social climbing handed back to me in self-assured, cleanly articulated French. Comprenez-vous? Malheureusement, oui.
If you’re unfamiliar, here are the CliffsNotes of Bourdieu’s work:
“Taste” is not an objective aesthetic judgement, but a social construct meant to distinguish the elites from the strivers and the Walmart people. (I’m embellishing, of course.)
Everything from how we pronounce the word “water” to the type of plastic surgery we might be inclined to get is determined by our habitus, the web of cultural norms and habits shaped by our upbringing. Habitus is the reason why Julia Roberts can’t pass for upper class in Pretty Woman even when she wears the right clothes—it’s in how she walks, talks, and picks up a salad fork.
Cultural capital manifests in intellectual or educational assets that contribute to potential success over the course of one’s lifetime. This could mean anything from knowing how to play the piano to having a PhD. Bourdieu lambasted the French educational system for rewarding students who already had cultural capital thanks to their privileged upbringings, perpetuating disparities between social classes.
I’ve been discussing several of these topics at a cheekily-named discussion group called Sad Rich Girl Salon, which meets every month to consider subjects from anti-aging regimens as a method of conformity to how the Bezos wedding is a perfect example of why you can’t buy taste. And I’m always intrigued by how quickly I can apply my extensive (read: often useless) knowledge of French culture to these conversations. Do I rag on Emily in Paris because it’s bad TV, or because it marks me as being in opposition to bad taste? (As Bourdieu says, “Taste is first and foremost distaste, disgust and visceral intolerance of the taste of others.”) What do I gain culturally from understanding the unspoken hierarchies of Parisian apartments, or how to behave correctly at a French dinner party? And how does bringing up Bourdieu at all reflect my education and social sensibilities?
I suppose that in many ways, Francophilia is the perfect example of the habitus conundrum. I can learn the language, study the customs, watch the sports teams (Allez les Bleus!), and bop along to the latest hits… but I’ll never one day wake up having magically become French.
But that’s okay! I can still appreciate a Monet and a nice wedge of Camembert, and get into heated philosophical debates at a downtown wine bar on a Tuesday night. And isn’t that the most French thing of all?
