Interlude: Class, sincerity, and curiosity

Disaffected interest is the polite distance of the elite, but an insatiable desire to know is the gauche display of the ravenously hungry

This one is short and sweet this week, friends. It's a bit of a ramble away from a different piece on curiosity, which I'll try to post next week; but I was reflecting on some really deeply impacting interactions I've had in my field, in the arts, and how what I think are really the basic inclinations of most compassionate humans are just sort of smashed in various settings. This is a raw, unedited reflection that I may come back to one day to refine.

I remember one night at an art opening, for an exhibition I curated in 2017, I was directly confronted with a class difference between me and a VIP guest. I suppose I was just being myself and attempting to engage in conversation, which for me generally means asking the person in front of me a few questions about themselves or in reply to whatever they’re saying. This man was a renowned architect—in his 60s or early 70s, white, and monied. I had been told he might want to purchase some artworks and that I should talk to him. So, I did. Right away he was disparaging of my gender and kept crediting the host of the exhibition space for the curation. Knowing at least this one rule—don’t insult the VIP with my compulsion to correct for accuracy—I tried to ignore this and inserted my authoritative curatorial remarks wherever they made sense. But I mostly deflected by volleying the conversation back to him through inquiry. He seemed both bemused and irritated, and declared “your penchant for questions is almost pathological!” I laughed. He wasn’t joking, his face was like a stone. And so I nervously stuttered something I don’t remember in return and we parted ways. He never purchased any of the art.

This all hit me very deeply. One, I was reminded again that I don’t know the rules of engagement outside my class. I’ve never been able to chit-chat, because I don’t know what people talk about when they don’t want to talk about what matters to them. I don’t know what I’m not supposed to say, as much as I don’t know what I’m expected to. I always thought it was just because of neurodivergence but also because having been raised by a very plainspoken and directly confrontational family, I’m genuinely disinterested in bullshit. Why waste the time? But this may also just be an intersection with class. At a certain level of privilege in life, I wonder if the intersection of both access and decorum prohibits sincere curiosity, and both sincerity and curiosity are viewed as vulgar and rude? I’ve been dinged by various people in my field on my sincerity, too. One colleague repeatedly referred to me as “achingly earnest” and to be honest, it always left me feeling inferior, as if it was silly, somehow. Mostly, I was confused. Why would I or anyone ever put ourselves in a position where we have to be anything but earnest, sincere, curious, and interested in the world and the people around us? But again, maybe that’s a position that is only afforded my class, because the more money involved, the more of a façade one must wear to maintain it. Curiosity is a threat because it brings with it the potential to reveal what people would prefer remain hidden. The inevitability of what curiosity leads to would shatter illusions.

Of course white supremacy is always at play here, too. Whiteness dictates rules for assimilation, which are largely based around willful or feigned ignorance and silence. Whiteness dictates achievement through compliance, conformity, and obedience; “polite society”. Don't ask, don't tell. No questions asked. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that. To inquire is to break the rules, and break the prescribed code. To be curious is to be unsatisfied with what’s been presented, or that what’s there isn’t taken at face value. It means the one who’s asking the questions either suspects or knows there’s more to the story. And that’s dangerous. Because while curiosity may have killed the cat, as the rest of the saying goes, satisfaction brought him back.