Abstract
My barber cuts my hair a different way each time. The result is always the same haircut, but he employs new processes, a different technique here or there, on each visit. I asked him about this once, and he told me that he is always picking new things up from other barbers or at various industry events. He reckons that if he ever felt like he had learned it all, then that would be the time to hang up his scissors. His barber shop has all the trappings that would see it categorised as hipster – retro arcade games, craft beers, bearded, and tattooed staff – but there is an ethos that goes far beyond the aesthetic. I want to say that there is a love of craft.
Born Liquid is a conversation between Zygmunt Bauman and Thomas Leoncini, apparently conducted by email, that focuses on the experiences of those who were born into the uncertainty and instability of what Bauman famously termed Liquid Modernity. This conversational approach to book writing has served Bauman well elsewhere – with Leonidas Donskis in Moral Blindness and David Lyon in Liquid Surveillance – and here again, we see his easy manner and breadth of interest translate into an accessible and engaging introduction to the way he thinks and sees the world. The first chapter sees Bauman and Leoncini riffing on tattoos, beards, and hipsterism, but really on the way, that young people are finding their way amid the transformation of identity into a task, where community has become less defining as a social ground than self-image. The second chapter starts out with some back-and-forth on bullying but quickly settles into a discussion of murder, mass murder, and genocide. And the final chapter sets off to explore the nature of online romance but, after a brief retelling of the nature of digital bonds, focuses more on the question of desire in general before looking to conclude on the dichotomy between the search for everlasting love and the impermanence of liquid life. Bauman raises an important question here: ‘Is there a way to reconcile “love till death us do part” with the alertness, watchfulness, vigilance and fence-jumping skills, and all-in-all restlessness, of such a creature of such a society?’ (p. 75). We do not get an answer. Sadly, Bauman passed away before giving a response, something detailed in a poignant postscript to the book. The chapter ends instead with Leoncini reflecting on precariousness as the main characteristic of the contemporary job market, how those who were born liquid are forced to be ‘experts in flexibility’ (p. 85), before posing more questions of Bauman that would tragically go unanswered.
I am tempted to say that an understanding of the hipster phenomenon that goes beyond the aesthetic, that looks into the love of craft that seems to centre this group, might be fruitful. My favourite bakery has a suitably hipster vibe – tattoos, beards, cronuts – but following them on Instagram, you see an almost pathological dedication to getting the right amount of aeration and blistering into a loaf. It seems to me that there is a desire to rediscover, or perhaps reinvigorate, traditional forms of work – in barbering, baking, butchery, and brewing; all the Bs – to be immersed in the certainties of tradecraft and grounded in the identity of a trade that your grandparents would recognise. I think we miss this if we focus on the checked shirts and Peaky Blinders haircuts. But I am not sure this matters as much as what the book achieves overall: a welcoming introduction to Bauman’s sociological craft and a kind of goodbye to a man whose thoughtfulness has marked our discipline. In these conversations, he comes across as someone of immense humanity, at ease with thinking but open to the challenge posed by others. And there is an affection towards Leoncini – and extended more generally towards youth – that is joyful to read. I will leave the final words with Leoncini: ‘The greatness of this man was equal only to his humility’ (p. 90).