Reykjavík Grapevine - 16.08.2013, Side 44

The Reykjavík Grapevine Issue 12 — 2013 44
I am by absolutely no means proper. In fact, the concept
of formality scares me. Just typing out the word gives
me chills and fills me with an inexplicable need to write
this piece like a job application. Formality. It terrifies me.
Formal conversations are not the main issue here, as I am
lucky enough to have learnt English systematically and
as a second language, which means I can usually pull off
a good bluff when it comes to formal speech. Besides,
if I find myself out of my depth I can always feign igno-
rance and play the “I didn’t know better, it’s my second
language”-card. It works either way.
On the other hand, formal events are considerably
trickier to fake. First of all, my whole body stiffens up and
loses control over its joints as soon as I see a suit, let alone
when I have to wear one. I look more uncomfortable in a
suit than Don Draper in a clown costume. Furthermore my
formal self is undeniably dull. A suit makes me lose the
ability to talk in whole sentences or say anything of inter-
est to anyone.
A suit makes me a boring stuttering halfwit. My only
escape is the nearest bar, which usually yields exactly the
same results. Because of this admittedly irrational fear I
have managed to go through life without the slightest
understanding of suits. My mum bought me one when I
graduated from college and since then it’s only served as a
reminder of younger, leaner and more carefree times.
I hate the thing.
Outstanding vs. Conforming
As goes for most character flaws of mine, I, rightly or
wrongly, attribute this formal handicap to my nationality. I
believe that compared to the English we Icelanders are ter-
rible at formality. The English thrive best in suits. They’re
one of the very few nations in Europe that still insists on
school uniforms, and that seems to teach people formal-
ity from a very young age. I can count on one hand the
instances I’ve had to wear a tie whilst English people wore
one every day of the school lives.
This insistence on uniformity, coupled with their his-
tory of class and aristocracy makes the English the world
champions in formality. By comparison, Icelanders, men in
particular, are cavemen. Icelandic women can pride them-
selves on an elegant and graceful traditional outfit but us
men have no history of formal wear. In fact, our national
Hátíðarbúningur (English: “Ceremonial costume”) was
designed in 1994. It’s younger than me! It was designed
as a pragmatic, modernised and formal alternative to the
traditional costume it replaced.
It seems to be the consensus that we sorely needed
something formal. A notion that is easily understood
when you actually see what it replaced. The traditional
male costume is about as ceremonial as our national drink
Brennivín, and as graceful as our national sport Glíma. It is
most certainly beautiful, colourful and fun—especially the
silly woollen hat that comes with it—but it was deemed
way too informal to ever be worn outside The National Mu-
seum or in period plays.
Scampering Scots vs. Us
Having recently attended a Scottish wedding I got a real
firsthand experience of what effect a good national outfit
can have on people. I fell in love with the outfit and the
pride attached to it. Scots are a proud bunch, but even
prouder when sporting the Highland Wear. Perhaps as a
Pavlovian response to the emasculating nature of wearing
a skirt, the kilt wearing Scot seems to spend the majority
of his time bragging about Hadrian’s Wall and Scotland’s
continuing superiority over the English.
Another brilliant skirt wearing reflex is the Sgian-dubh,
which is a small—most of the time fake—knife tucked
into the sock and gives the outfit another confusing but
an entertaining dimension. Unfortunately, I don’t think the
same applies to our Hátíðarbúningur. Whilst I do find it el-
egant and smart, its formality still frightens me. Besides,
it doesn’t fulfil its purpose of instating pride in its wearer.
It’s black and conforming and neither feels important nor
exclusive enough to justify its status as a national outfit.
Thankfully though, we still have the old quintessentially
Icelandic costume somewhere in the basement of The Na-
tional Theatre. My suggestion is we dig it up and embrace
our formality-deficiency. It’s bound to spark new life into
our confirmations, weddings or Christmas parties. Instead
of meagrely talking about the weather we can spend our
time wrestling, boasting about our Viking roots and moan-
ing about the Danish.
Let’s be more like the Scots. It certainly sounds like fun
to me.
Árni Hjörvar is a musician
National Formality-Deficiency?
“This insistence on unifor-
mity, coupled with their
history of class and aris-
tocracy makes the English
the world champions in
formality. By comparison,
Icelanders, men in par-
ticular, are cavemen.”
Nanna Dís