I bet you’re a good driver. Or at least, I bet you think you’re a good driver. According to an oft-cited survey from a few decades back, 80 percent of us believe we’re better than average behind the wheel—a statistical impossibility, of course, and a curious expression of collective self-confidence/delusion.
I bring this up to talk not about driving but about taste. I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently—and how to define it. Because does anyone think they don’t have good taste? A quick show of hands from those of you who’ll stand up now and say, “Me? Oh, no—I’m horrible: My homes look like they’ve been decorated in the dark by a 3-year-old, and I can’t dress myself for love nor money.
Books, art, design, fashion...
no clue.” Now, while I might be an outlier among you by not being convinced I’m a particularly good driver—long story; I’ll tell you another time—I do think that I’ve got something approaching good taste. Not least because taste, like wine and cheese, improves with age, and as I’m starting to get on a bit, I’ve tried some things over the years, realized I didn’t like them or they me, and moved on.
With experience, experimentation, self-awareness, keen observation, and sometimes blind luck, one’s taste evolves. Into your orbit might fall those whose discernment and knowledge you admire—whether you’re influenced by them a little or co-opt their judgment entirely is up to you, but I’ve not yet met a tasteful clo.
