why carelessness bothers me

When I see a mistake, like a French word misspelled, or the history of an object botched, on a design blog it gets on my nerves. And today I figured out why.

I know not everyone can speak several languages, has spent time learning about the cultures they are attracted to (much less lived in those places), and has the time or attention I have. But the kind of mistakes I’m talking about (no `in très, for example) matter to me because they reveal the lack of deep engagement with the material that I value, and they reveal the use of the language (or other cultural reference) for what it is: a sell. And that cheapens something I hold dear, and it threatens that thing, because it says that a superficial or merely referential interest in something is adequate. That’s like going to a dinner party and knowing what artisanal cheese is like, and then having your host serve Cheez-Wiz on crackers, with little garnishes that make it look like something it’s not.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the selling side of things. I didn’t stop selling things for any high-falutin’ reason; I stopped because I was going to the UK. But now, outside that economy for a few years, I really reflect on that choice. I have a hard time being dishonest, and I see some of the stuff that goes on in terms of selling as dishonest, or sometimes just careless (which is not much better). I didn’t want, and still don’t want, to sell anything, put anything out–and that includes my writing and my being in the world–that I can’t stand behind and say, yes, that’s me, I thought that through and decided it was something real and good I want to give you.

But the way our system works demands the new, over and over. And part of that will almost always be the commodification of images, ideas, cultural productions, and preconceptions. Which gives me pause. Because I’m not comfortable being told something is “Moroccan” just because it’s got some arabesque tracery on it. And I’m equally uncomfortable with the kind of visual feast that removes the question of why a dinner party in a former colony might feature dishes inherited from its colonisers. Yeah, I love the beautiful pictures. I do. And I sometimes envy the houses and lives I see online. But I want to think that what I engage with I engage with deeply–which might mean I’m not always jumping onto the next new thing, but also means I understand to some extent the histories and functions of what I love.

And it bothers me to see these kinds of errors in places where people go for what is essentially an education, because they show value put on a sell over a deep engagement with material (which is never as glamorous in the short term, nor as profitable).

I’m apprehensive to push publish, but I’m doing it anyway.