I love this series on so many levels. Let me tell you why, really indirectly and really aggressively.
Recently been thinking about how often I look at pictures of skinny white girls, being someone with an interest in fashion and the blogosphere. But I am not skinny, nor am I white. My bra size is an E cup, and I see nothing but bee-stings on these photographs. I look at the photographs, and I look in the mirror, and it doesn't add up in my mind, and I am unhappy with who I am. So I've been forced to ask myself, what is this preoccupation with perfection anyway, and why have we allowed ourselves to be convinced that we are not perfect already- unless we have the perfect face, the perfect teeth, the perfect bod, the perfect skin....... every last little part of the female anatomy you can imagine: PERFECT, we are told. We are shown. We are shoved it down our throats. Why are these images of perfection mostly of skinny white girls? How does that make a not-skinny not-white girl feel? Is it on purpose? And if it's not the advertising that's getting to you, it's the other women around you (my mum asked me why I haven't painted my toenails today, for example).
What is all of this doing to me subconsciously, and, how do I feel when I look in the mirror? Do all of us secretly feel that way? Do many of us ask ourselves these questions? I have had to stop looking at the pictures. I still look in the mirror, it's still a struggle. But I have had to start questioning those images whenever they pop up, which is often, but it's a start, at least. But to make matters worse, I went to the mall today, here in Brisbane of all places; just to throw myself right in the thick of it, just to torture myself a little bit more. Of course I wanted to buy everything, all the cheap bullshit that I don't even need, and I wanted to look like the other girls with their perfect clothes and makeup and hair and skin, and then cry into a greasy donut at the end conveniently, just like they want us to, just like we always do.
“The title of the series alludes to sleep disorders and occurrences of anomalous and unusual actions. The photographs are playful and skillful manipulations of the physical body to symbolize moments of ambiguity and disorientation. Within the images resides a latent force of sculptural stasis: the power of the body and the world it is held in.”
Viviane Sassen, photographer
Yes, yes, and yes. And my ways of coping aren't always the greatest; sometimes I'll become critical of the women who are or try to emulate this ideal in a way that's destructive to all of us - I get so bitchy, and it's so obvious I feel threatened or just wrong. I get so sick of those pictures, and even when I don't look at them I know everyone else is, so those ideals still exist, and I'm just hiding from them. I hate how when I look at pictures of women who aren't white and skinny, I feel like they're being fetishised; which is how I feel myself, a bit. Having a white and skinny ideal often means that if someone decides you are beautiful in spite of not being those things, you become an exception, and by extension, a kind of fetish. I'm so glad you wrote this. I'm going to think about it more. And man, our mums have to sort their shit out! My mum is always the one to say I need a haircut, and is far more critical of women's appearances than men's...
ReplyDeleteGo aggression!!!
I feel that way too about the fetish thing, in fact, somebody used the term 'jungle fever' recently in relation to a guy (who pretty much has every-girl fever anyway) and I found it pretty offensive, even though it was supposed to be flattering. Just the fact that brown skin equates to 'jungle' is pretty offensive?
DeleteBeing over here is making me aggressive, I guess because it's not the type of place I'd choose to be. But I'm learning things. No ethnic diversity, very commercial, and everyone stares at me because I look different - at first I tried to give dirty looks back but now I just ignore it. Despite how uncomfortable and frightening it is, I am also forced to take notice of certain concrete realities, that are otherwise a bit more watered down back in NZ.
Yesterday I hung out in this place called Fortitude Valley aka Chinatown aka SALVATION. I bought some cigarettes, sat down on a bench and started reading my book. The opening line was, "I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead." I wanted to cry or applaud. And in that moment an aboriginal girl interrupted me and told me she thought I looked awesome sitting there reading my book. It really meant a lot to me! I know that sounds cheesy but it was just after I'd written this and it's pretty lonely out here....
I am glad we can think about this stuff and share our mutual aggression openly!