A Guide to the State of Fetish NoirWhat is Fetish Noir?
Firstly, I should establish this: Fetish Noir is not a genre. It is a state of mind. A wholly sentient, ever-present condition, which renders its charge incapable of dealing with vulgarity of any description. The Noirist, possessed by enquiring, ever-curious pursuit of the human condition, is just the kind of utterly delightful being forever in demand at social engagements, public demonstrations and Roman orgies. We thrive on intellect, gorge on beauty and positively glow with peachy luminescence when placed near a Caravaggio or a Pollock. We can detect one-part jazz among a million parts pop and will squeal like stuck pigs if we are photographed in anything other than a perfected scale of poses ranging from cool monochromatic nonchalance to blast-furnace theatrics. |
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We're not built for hard labour...We are a breed. One born of many rendered talents - not one of them transferable to practical, handy real-life scenarios. We know nothing of DiY. Do not ask us to decorate, we do this well enough simply by arriving.
We are works of art made flesh and blood. We seek total sensory immersion: drowning ourselves in painting, music, sculpture, poetry and literature. We adore dressing up: darkly gilding our delectable forms in the high-shine lure of latex and leather, wrapping and swathing ourselves in velvet, suede and silk whilst rouging and powdering ourselves to ever-more painterly lushness. You can keep the diamonds. We care not for those hard little gems: boiled sweets of broken dreams and bloodshed. No fire of brilliance will ever burn as brightly as our all-consuming passion for human-made feats of astounding artistic endeavour. Stuff the rubies, sapphires and emeralds too: tawdry, common stones. Our breath catches to gaze upon the indentations of Pluto’s fingers on Proserpina’s thigh. Cold gold could never warm on our skin the way the tones of Ella Fitzgerald or Billie Holliday heat our souls, paving the way for the kind of late-night love that makes the neighbours wish for an insulated party wall. Talk to us in poetic reams, suggest a late supper by way of a Byronic pentameter and we’ll follow you to the bowels of hell. |
The sordid topic of coin...Money does not concern us, despite the fact that the beautiful things we love use up a lot of it. If we must work, we never allow it to consume anything more than a fraction of our being. Although we are required to earn a living, we endeavour to make it in as boring and repetitive a manner possible thus allowing plenty of thinking time during those hours which we must devote to the tiresome process.
Those of us who are either unrequiring of remuneration from an employed position, or who are lucky enough that our “job” is also our passion, are the truly blessed among our number. What joy it is to be able to choose an occupation that serves to enlighten and enrich us daily. Some working Noirists are easily identifiable: the restaurateur, swinging a beautifully shod foot from her perch at the end of the bar, champagne flute held commandingly aloft, conducting the balletic waiters whirling around her. The gloriously ornamental gallery owner: herself a work of art with exquisite, finely detailed features highlighted by impeccably arranged lighting. Indeed, she would joyously admit, what is the point of having your own “shop” if not to promote the dream of yourself? |
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I spy...To assist you in spotting a Noirist in open territory, serious examination has identified several typical behavioural indicators detailed below in no particular order:
D’un homme: - The sound of quarter-tipped shoes on a marble floor - Unconscious, sleight-of-hand cufflink application and removal - A long wool overcoat tinged with the faint scent of Givenchy cologne and Monte Cristo cigars - A gentle hand placed to the small of the back when guiding a gal through a doorway - Quiet confidence: neither shy nor punchy with opinions - Slow and deliberate movements: whether reaching for a glass of bourbon, turning the page of a book or signing a cheque there is nothing hurried about the Noirist D‘une femme: - Unconsciously moving lips when reading poetry, savouring the words like wine - Snapping shut a Chanel compact with a flourish of deep red polished nails and a satisfying thunk! - Full-skirted, deep-pocketed Dior-esque lavishness or poker-straight pencil-skirted perfection. Jeans are NOT an option. - Languid, rolling hip movement: whether leaving the dinner table to visit the powder room or prowling the halls of The Courtald Gallery - Throaty laughing, head thrown back exposing a tantalising length of lily-white neck - Requesting the maître d' to lower the lights a little more and bring another candle to the table |