As the word “hipster” is rendered more and more amorphous and diluted in meaning (perhaps currently used merely to signify some one who is young and wears clothes), it’s become increasingly difficult to take potshots at the people who might make us feel schlubby and out-of-touch. Luckily, folks are still doing creative things with the concept. Photographer Léo Caillard created a series called “Hipster in Stone,” wherein he “styles” famous sculptures in the fashions of today’s younger clothes-wearers. As a broke young person from Brooklyn with a creative job, I feel it is my anthropological duty to place the themes and characters of Caillard’s work.
First off, pictured above is the hungover guy who ruins brunch. Seriously. You save up go to brunch once a damn month and he’s always there, using incredibly deliberate body language, expounding loudly on how wasted he got last night, sitting in his chair in such a way as to obstruct the servers as they attempt to do their jobs. Shut up, hungover guy, just drink your 10$ pitcher of mimosas like everyone else.
This is my old boss from when I worked at a third party political organization. He enjoys chambray, Instagramming graffiti, and rap. He’s really into weight-training and the Paleo diet.
This guy acts like he has no money, but he really has tons of money.
This guy acts like he has money, but doesn’t.
This girl has her MA in Public Policy, but can only find a job at my coffee shop 20 hours a week. Her ex-boyfriend’s a dick, and when she’s not trying to get a job with a living wage, she makes awesome weird paintings of her cat when she’s stoned.
This is just my friend, Steve. He’s a grant writer, and lives in Clinton Hill with his awesome wife, who’s a librarian. Steve is unpretentious, and knows all the dialogue to Big Trouble in Little China. Everyone likes Steve. If you don’t like Steve, then fuck you.
This one is actually me. I ran out of money before laundry day and washed my shirt in the sink. I’m waiting for it to dry, and attempting to get in my skinny jeans. I’d rather be David Rakoff than Lena Dunham. I write for an arts and culture blog, work for a socialist organization, have tattoos, and make punk music. I’m probably a laughable stereotype, and it doesn’t bother me much. I think it’s funny when people call me a hipster.
This guy’s a Greenpoint dad, and when he’s not carrying the free-range lambs he breeds on his roof, he’s wearing a baby backpack, so he can bond with little Percival.
This girl and I were best friends for a night at a bar because I gave her some tampons and she gave me some cigarettes when all the bodegas near the bar were closed. That’s not her baby—she nannies for Percival. I can’t remember her name…. I never go to that bar anymore.
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