In a magazine which crackles as you flip through the pages is an ad for a brand of cigarettes which today we mock for being the cheap fare of women in faux fur.
A pack of them sits atop a table in still life beside a delicate vas(more)e containing long stemmed tropical shoots. The age of the paper has filtered the light of the photograph. You can see that it is from the 1970's.
There is an unspoken argument summed up in the word 'class'. These are cigarettes left by graceful fingers atop a small table in the waiting room of a grand home. The sun on the table passes first through the panes of a window looking out on manicured landscaping.
One must admit the urge to light up whispers in your direction from there on the page, but it is only a fickle and passing suggestion. The suggestion of an uninterested stranger who doesn't bother to ask twice once you've indicated reluctance.
The thought of smoking cigarettes in a grand home in the seventies summons thoughts of smoking in the seventies. Thoughts of smoking in the seventies conjures images of smoking other consumables. Thoughts of joints and nature festivals and hedonism forgetful of consequence.
In a way they had such a great point, the young people of the seventies. A counter point at least. It could be summed up as 'but why man'?
You've got to get a job and cut that hair. 'but why man'?
You've got to be respectable and not just go around sleeping with whomever you please. 'but why man'?
You've got to worship a dead god and pretend there's the slightest bit of proof for existence and follow ancient rituals and a violent patriarchal morality 'but why man'?