It causes Miss Mussel great pain to admit it, but she shares citizenship with the pictured woman/stick insect, aptly described by Sam Anderson as
the Antichrist of the indie sensibility, an overemoting schmaltz-bot who has somehow managed to convert the ethos of Wal-Mart into sine waves and broadcast them, at kidney-rupturingly high volume, directly into our internal soulPods.
in his review of Carl Wilson‘s recently published book on Mme Dion called “Let’s Talk About Love: A Journey to the End of Taste.”
In his self-described experiment of taste, Wilson subjects himself to full-on Celine immersion in order to work out (in Anderson’s words)
the thorny philosophical problem on which [Celine’s] reputation has been impaled: the nature of taste itself. What motivates aesthetic judgment? Is our love or hatred of “My Heart Will Go On” the result of a universal, disinterested instinct for beauty-assessment, as Kant would argue? Or is it something less exalted? Wilson tends to side with the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu, who argues that taste is never disinterested: It’s a form of social currency, or “cultural capital,” that we use to stockpile prestige. Hating Céline is therefore not just an aesthetic choice, but an ethical one…
Tangential aside :
Overemoting schmaltz-bot: Tchaikovsky, hands down. Who else?