You could say it has become “kinda chic” to declare the death of the word chic.
As the phrase has blanketed Instagram and TikTok, where people are declaring it “kinda chic” to drink matcha lattes, lift weights or tote books in their purses, critics have been griping that the true meaning of chic is now hopelessly lost.
As annoying as this meme has become, all of this whingeing about it feels self-serious and a bit rude. It fails to see what’s funny about the deliberately lowbrow use of “kinda,” deployed to undercut the less attainable state known as “chic.”
Chic is a high bar, but lots of things, when you think about it, can be kinda chic. (The complainers online are also sorta bragging, placing themselves above everyone else who doesn’t know better.)
The meme cuts right to the heart of everything that seems to make people anxious right now. It concerns taste and our sense of our own individuality. On X the other day, a photo of a young woman in a breezy white skirt who said it was “kinda chic” to wear whatever she wanted was swiftly followed by an accusation that her outfit had been decided for her by “the algorithm.”
True, nothing on the internet is chic. It’s chic with an asterisk. Chic with a disclaimer that says “algorithmically selected.” Nothing so digitally spoon-fed could ever rise to the level of chic, which requires not only a human touch but a three-dimensional experience. Chic has texture.
Many of us know this instinctively and are hyperaware that algorithms and A.I. shape what we see and like, threatening another tenet of chicness: the ability to make aesthetic choices based on our intuitions and personalities. When we see someone else participating in the mass culture of the internet, it activates a mortifying human need to assert that we’re different.
But back to the word itself. Chic is a perfect word because it has no true synonym. No matter how other people use it, you can still preserve its special meaning for yourself and — if its overuse is what offends you — use it sparingly.
As I thought through what “chic” meant to me, I poked around The Times’s archives. The definition I found that resonated with me most was from a column printed in 1877 with no name attached: “What is chic may, in a sense, be fashionable, but what is fashionable cannot be chic. Anybody can wear and do what is fashionable.” And, the writer added, “it has the quickness of a hummingbird and the vitality of an eel.”
It may be the case that drinking a matcha and posting about it on social media can’t be chic. But as this anonymous writer tells us, “chic” is a flickering, slippery thing. Always, though, you know it when you feel it or see it.
Other things worth knowing about:
I hate jeans. Always have. They feel stiff, and if they fit at the waist, there’s excess fabric at the hip. If they fit in the hip, the waist gaps. Since the pandemic, I have leaned into athleisure but find it can look sloppy. What’s the alternative? — Sue, Edmonton, Alberta
First of all, know that you are not alone. The actress Eva Mendes once called jeans her “worst nightmare.” Seth Rogen told Jennifer Hudson he doesn’t own a single pair. “They’re constricted, they’re heavy, they’re weird,” he said. Kevin Hart announced he stopped wearing them after he turned 40 because “jeans hurt and are not comfortable.” Dita Von Teese said she finds them “unappealing.” Whole Reddit threads are devoted to people complaining about jeans. … Read more.
