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Dinner Parties, Narcissus and the Power of a Hypothetical
by Leah Mustard
In Ovid’s Metamorphoses, upon the realisation that he cannot be one with his lover, the reflection of Narcissus becomes occluded by tears disturbing the surface of the water. As the figure is distorted, he becomes so disturbed that he beats his naked chest until it flares the purple-green of unripe grapes, self-flagellating the object of his desire.
In the posthumous publication The Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa laments the creation of the mirror, mourning a loss of ignorance extinguished when man was able to meet his own gaze. ‘“Only in the water of rivers and ponds could he look at his face,’” he states, ‘“And the very posture he had to assume was symbolic. He had to bend over, stoop down, to commit the ignominy of beholding himself.’”
We can see that despite the ritualistic bending to meet your reflection in the water, man can still waste away to nothing. Image and self-actualisation are so closely linked due to the advent of social media, and we are more than aware of the effect that has on human connection. Much could be said for the philosophical shift from collectivism to individualism, feudalism to capitalism, to bolster the effect of the social-media-mirror. I don’t like the tone with which the world fashions content to be more palatable when it is “ugly” or set against the more “refined” – a mirror is a mirror, no matter whether it is bordered with pearl or shards of glass like silver teeth.
In an article for Service95, Lucas Oakeley compares the ultra-curated, Instagrammable Hauste duo with the raucous, brassy ladies of Mam Sham, serving up “good grub + lols.” Ultimately, whether you are providing “pocket planners” to “elevate” your events with a list of “must-buys” for the perfect host, or toting tickets to their “immersive dining” experience (fit with “a ludicrous medley about vaginas” alongside their dessert-taco accompaniment), you are delivering a product to a market. You are asking your audience to pick up the mirror, stare, and ask if they can commodify time spent with friends. We should not learn to love the reflection of ourselves, as we know that self-image is influenced by that persistent loss of perspective.
Oakeley goes on to quote Colm Tóibín, who positions the dinner party as an environment in which people argue about things they know nothing about. I understand the sentiment it presents, but it reflects a greater cultural cringe correlating effort to uncoolness. There is nothing inherently wrong with talking about nothing;, it’s the judgement of talking about something for fear of others finding you abrasive.
I disagree that dinner parties are supposed to be arguing about nothing at all – that cheapens the experience, I think. Sure, you’re welcome to discuss the unseriousness of the folding chairs produced from the garage, the drunken stupor of events past, although it can also be discussions of author-function and intentionalism. What it cannot be is a superficial aesthetic hellscape of curated ideation-to-execution, made for the purpose of showing connection without experiencing it.
Let us not become enamoured with ourselves insofar that the human heart becomes poisoned by a self-obsessed image of what togetherness should look like. We do not waste away as Narcissus did but actively reach so far that we fall into the pond of our self-obsession, drowning in $800 juicers and perfect napkins for perfect hosts. The consuming nature of self-image cannot serve us, no matter what font it is presented to us in. Ultimately, the content we consume and put out into the world shapes our self-image – a self-fulfilling prophecy. Connection in any capacity, ugly or beautiful, is perfect in the absence of a mirror.
So, what should a dinner party look like? Am I not just setting a criterion all the same?
I suppose, in my own arrogant way, I am. What I hope people find in themselves is a desire to put their phone in a drawer, set themselves down at a table of people they love instead of buying into the image of a perfect gathering – minimalist or maximalist, bacchanalian or intellectual, new martini glasses or hand-me-down forks.
When talking to my colleagues, I found that they had many and varied opinions about what made an objectively enjoyable dinner party. Not one proclaimed an interest in the perceived image of the event, save personal interest in the symmetry of matching tablecloths. Not one cared for how it looked beyond how it made them feel, nor how it might be perceived by others outside the space.
Most important was seating – not too many invited so it becomes a full-blown party, but a table with considered placing and moveability. It is said a conversation between more than five is hard to follow, and the groups from which you invite could also influence social harmony.
Music and its impact on the so-called vibe was repeated consistently. Drinks on arrival, both non-alcoholic and alcoholic, and making sure that guests don’t need to hunt for cups. Interactivity when making drinks was also encouraged. Nibbles for an hour before the meal – perhaps charcuterie or a bag of chips or amuse-bouches, or party pies.
The place should be not so hot to make one lethargic, nor too cold for discomfort. You might choose for your cutlery and plates to match, or keep them as distinct as possible, but your choices must exist solely for your pleasure. By setting the table with flowers and candles and table runners or foregoing the table altogether, you must feel it reflects your own wants, not what exists in the mirror-glass pond of the spectated.
Finally, little games, quizzes, or fancies were encouraged as a tool to bridge gaps between social groups or discover new overlaps between friends. So, we now turn to the hypothetical, the old reliable sort of question that can be as unthoughtful or profound as the atmosphere demands – who is your dream dinner party guest list? Your hellish guest list? What would you do in a zombie apocalypse?
To look inward and to look outward, to find connection with the friend who also would invite Cleopatra VII to their dream dinner, to find beauty in moments that are not made to be captured. Thus, I invite you to find the uncapturable in a dinner party – to host the way that makes you feel fulfilled, to quilt the pond in duckweed and turn your face to the sun.
Leah Mustard is a Meanjin/Brisbane based actor, high-school teacher and academic. They
enjoy a wide variety of creative outlets, though most commonly find themselves with pen in
hand or head in book.
Leah is featured in our issue 01 print . Get your copy here!