In the early twenty-first century, I spent a lot of time with fellow artists who happened to be friends and near-neighbors of mine. We spent time painting. Nearly every weekend was spent in front of canvases with oil or acrylic smeared, dabbed, danced, or otherwise applied in accordance to the sorts of methods one might find in the studios of Expressionists, Impressionists, or Alergists. That last category is my own and it involves utilizing the sneeze reflex for artistic purposes. Jackson Pollock seems to have done so, as have a number of expressionists, mainly German Expressionists, which isn’t surprising. They did the same thing in film only it didn’t splatter as much. These Expressionists, the German ones, belonged to the Gesundheit School. I don’t know if there really is a Gesundheit School, extolling the virtues of the Gesundheit Method…but based on some of the artwork I’ve seen (and created) there should be. There was an anthropologist in that group: one of the foremost authorities on Russian culture, and it was in conversation with her that the topic of hats loomed large on my personal horizon. It’s no secret to anyone, anthropologists or otherwise, that there is a language embedded in the existence of hats. It is (and was) somewhat of a surprise, however, to learn that the language of hats has shifted, diffused, and mutated. Throughout much of Human history, up until the1960s, hats were markers of social status, and—to a degree--ideology. During the 1960s, however, hats were considered a “modest” expenditure: far cheaper than full suits of clothing or shoes, and so the class/ideological language of hats mutated. In Russia, however, the hat maintained and maintains some of its linguistic power, not necessarily in terms of distinguishing class, but in terms of pointing to far more personal things. The language of hats in Russia is—or was, in the late 20th century—rife with all sorts of personal and interpersonal declarations, all hinging on the position of brims, ear-flaps, and color, texture, and size. The presence of the baseball cap—even in Russia—supports the claim that cheap hats are a mutagenic substance, and the presence of cheap headwear, has created a more complex, less distinctive language. In short, nobody really wears hats for particularly-monolithic reasons any more. Or do they? In wandering around Chicago’s downtown core, I came across a display of hats in a window. Not just any hats, but expensive hats: classic hats. Fedoras and their cousins. I didn’t’ see hats, however: in the words of a particular anthropologist, I saw nouns and verbs, adjectives and adverbs, all jostling for my attention, all waiting to tell me something, to reveal the wearer. Indeed, in terms of hats, nothing speaks as loudly and as clearly as a Fedora, except maybe their cousins, the bowlers, berets, and those floppy furry ear-muffed artificial afros they wear in Russia. In wandering by a store, I saw evidence of a language reasserting itself; it was refreshing to see. Somewhat. Nothing saddens me more than the death of a language, even a non-vocal, largely sartorial language, but a small (and exceptionally expensive) store on Chicago’s Plymouth Court told me that yes hats haven’t gone anywhere, and some of them are saying the same old thing. I’m not sure how I really feel about that, but I do know that it made for a good photo. These particular hats have quite a lot to say, and—because of my choice of POV, I’ve avoided the incendiary rants screeched by their price tags. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.