THE HOT GIRL COSTUME #2 : THE GREAT PARADOX

Hi ZONErZzZ,

Long time, no see. It’s a weird year again innit? Looking back I cannot even comprehend the magnitude of the changes I went through between 2020 and 2021 (and I think I am not alone in that realm). Emotionally, you’ve already read my shambles, but I also shifted perspective on more pragmatic stuff. Throughout my life being turned upside down, a common thread has accompanied me regularly, revolving around my relationship to my own appearance (face and body), my love and passion for the fashion and design industry, and my recent spike of interest for feminist work deconstructing patriarchy and the systems it imprisons women in (and when I say interest, I obviously mean borderline obsession). This article has thus been brewing for a while in my brain, because putting my thoughts on paper involves opening up on a particularly confronting subject for me: I have to recognise how I take active part in a system that ultimately oppresses me and I have to question a chunk of my identity that I have been very vocal about. I am a fashion person, and I am fascinated about design and fashion, but is it for the right reasons (is there such thing as “right reason and intention” when it comes to women in the system we are living in? would be the real question)? If you liked the hot girl costume #1, then keep on reading because it is in the same vein, only better.

The power of the images

As I already mentioned numerous times throughout the other articles I wrote, fashion imagery always held a tremendous power over me, from my early teenage years observing Vogue editorials for hours, to more recent years, wilfully spending my money on beautiful special editions of Love Magazine or polaroids repositories of Helmut Newton. Looking back, and looking at it from the perspective that I have now, I would maybe say that is because they represent a more intense, glamorous picture of reality. Staged, edited, but that, to me, was more appealing than my world at the time. And I guess for most big names in fashion, the love affair with design starts similarly. That feeling of being a bit of an outsider in your own reality and the pull towards this fantasy world you see on glossy paper where you think you ultimately belong. And in itself, I stand by the fact that elegance is a fundamental expression of humanity. Creativity, elevating what we have, putting together a sublime narrative with what is at hand, as Sophie Fontanel portrays it, has little to do with the multi billion dollars fashion industry and with Vogue. It’s almost a basic need.

But the industry sucks you in ultimately, at least it sucked me in. Further than the natural push towards elegance, it sells you a fantasy of what life can be. As I explained in a previous article, my disenchantment towards the fashion business, I already came to terms with because I feel it is less personal and less telling about my identity. But shit really hit the fan when I was forced to reconsider my relationship to fashion, image and photography.

Shit really hit the fan when I was forced to reconsider my relationship to fashion, image and photography.

I had forever been extremely sensitive to photography. Earlier in my life I stared obsessively at the editorial sections of fashion magazines letting myself be overwhelmed by the power of the images I was confronted with. I remember vividly seeing Limelight Nights for the first time and feeling my brain melt or light up, I can’t really tell. The greenish weird hue, the looks of the characters photographed, as if they made you accomplice of something horrible that would have happened (even if nothing explicitly gore or cruel is depicted), the awkward position of the lady in the swimming pool, floating almost like a corpse: a masterpiece layers deep with meaning and ambiguous enough that it leaves you with questions, just how I like it. This photo is still my computer desktop picture, along with “Summertime” by Jackson Pollock that I absolutely revere. But I digress.

I have tried the majority of my teenage years and young adulthood to be a perfect product for this faulted system

On those photos, there were women. The icons, the IT girls, the ones that reflect the light in the manner that fascinates everyone. Don’t get me wrong, the construction of fashion photography, the scenery, the theme, the designs still really play a huge role in the interest I give to a photograph, but the women, those who translate the quintessential sexual desire of a whole era, the fascinating creatures you can’t help but stare at, they were the star of my show. They moved me so much that I went on a quest of wanting to be them, to encapsulate what I understood as being the very essence of being an exceptional woman. I tried to channel the subversive “heroine chic” energy of Kate Moss, to encapsulate what I thought was the rebellious freedom and unapologetic sexual energy of Brigitte Bardot, more recently I tried to ooze the tranquil yet powerful healthy and active persona that Gisele Bundchen conveys. I tried to be all that, and, at the same time, be unequivocally, undoubtedly, almost mystically and universally perceived as fascinating, hot, desirable. It blows my mind how my desire to be desired is rooted so deep that, despite being aware of it, I can’t help but still act unconsciously to fulfil it, regardless of anything else I want to achieve.

What the hell is this telling about me?

So recently, the glossy polish covering what I thought was a healthy passion started to chip as the power of images showed its disturbing side. The worst is, it was never a shock, deep down, I knew something was wrong, I felt how my content consumption wasn’t fulfilling me, how inadequate and awkward I felt, despite my efforts to be validated by everyone. First it was Richardson, then Testino, then so many others. Vogue stopped working with proven abusers but more was to come out on the atmosphere on sets. How the models were mistreated, more importantly how everyone had stayed silent for so long on what was going on. And I couldn’t unsee it: that weird sexual energy that often pulls you towards a picture, the so-called genius I often saw in a few photos was directly rooted in oppressive power dynamics on-stage, stemming from a misogynistic depiction of women, seen as only sexual objects, easy on the eye, revered, made to be desired, but certainly not permitted to express their own desire nor consent. Worst is, I have tried the majority of my teenage years and young adulthood to be a perfect product for this faulted system. If I self-applied all the oppression tools to become whatever the majority of people considered a beautiful woman, I supported an industry which too often is far from having the best interests of women at heart by being so moved by what it depicted: what the hell is this telling about me?

Authentic Passion first or sole symptom of patriarchal oppression ?

It took time to sink in, but after watching the industry being exposed and a going through unhealthy dose of introspection (as always), I am left me with one question, did my love for fashion and design come first or is my appreciation for clothes, makeup, style, photography, solely rooted in my faulted self depiction: always having to be this universal sexual/ desirable object? Is that so-called passion I wanted to transform into a career and that I put so much time and effort into, solely the reflection of the power patriarchy holds over me? Spoiler 1, I still don’t have an answer. Spoiler 2 it still doesn’t feel comfortable to ask myself this question.

Most importantly I have trained myself to only look at myself in the eye of someone looking at me

One thing I have come to terms with (kind of) would be that humans are the absolute best at holding space for paradox. One of the attributes I am most proud of and that people recognize in me is the fact that I value freedom over anything. The compliment I love most to receive is being compared to a wild animal, and yet it clashes completely with my current reality. I kicked off some serious feminist education, to understand how the self-inflicted prison I am living in is built. As Virginie Despentes would put it, for a good 10 years, my biggest concern has been to keep my space in “Le Marché de la bonne meuf” translated “The hot/ fuckable girls market” (King Kong Theory). So much so that I forgot how to look at myself from a subject perspective. Not without feeling guilty, I can now say that most days, I apply to myself the “male gaze” criticised so much in the film industry (check out the Bechdel test if you are into understanding how cinema is spoiled with patriarchal BS). I’ve dismembered my body, ranking its parts from Hot to Not hot, I’ve isolated each of my facial features to see if they were acceptable or not, I’ve made a point in hating all that I considered didn’t fit the mold enough. I’ve looked at the ads and the “outfits of the day” of all the models I follow on IG, not because I liked the clothes but because I wanted to be as hot as the woman in them, I’ve ranked famous women based on how hot they were and had endless discussions in the likes of “YoU caN’T sAy ThaT Kate MoSs Is HOtTer Than YoUnG BB”.

Life threw my faulted oppressive systems in my face

Most importantly I have trained myself to only look at myself in the eye of someone looking at me. In other words, I gave away the agency and control over what is just the vessel that takes me through life away, starting a war with my human flesh. I read Simone de Beauvoir, Gisele Halimi, I’ve listened to all the episodes of “Les couilles sur la table” for a good bit of theory, and without noticing it, life threw my faulted oppressive systems in my face. I recently went away travelling, with way less fashion, time to be concerned about how I was looking, globally without the attributes of style I am so passionate about. During this period I didn’t read any article on the Business of Fashion, I didn’t watch any fashion show and I lived what I consider the most intense chapter of my life. Again.. Paradox. I can’t turn off the visceral interest I have for all things fashion, and yet, a chunk of my life where it was less present didn’t feel empty nor misaligned. WEIRD.

It’S A SpEcTrUM

I can’t possibly get myself to give up on the industry that I love but, at the same time, things need to change. Recently, I re-read the excellent essay of Emily Ratajkowski in the Cut “Buying myself back”. She very eloquently paints a picture of how images of her are now possessed by males and how it seems that she doesn’t hold any control over some paparazzi photos, books, art - money making machines - that are ultimately done with her body. How weird and telling is it that those products do not belong to her when they are representations of her body? In the context of this essay, what particularly interests me is how she refers to an incremental journey to take back control where she can find it. And I guess this is the only thing you can do at the end of the day. Take control back of your own gaze to assess if the choices you make are directed by a male gaze idea you have of yourself not saying this is anywhere near easy, but I guess self-awareness is a good first step.

There is a whole less explored creative world crafted by women that is as fascinating

Besides, I am certainly not resigned to abandoning fashion or to see a clear dichotomy between the 2 worlds I am now a part of (fashion and feminism if you are following). The optimistic in me wants to believe that the faulted power dynamics oppressing women are not the only way to get a good photograph. As much as I hate to admit it, I still think Helmut Newton, Mario Testino, Terry Richardson have produced extremely moving masterpieces that will forever move me (as much as I hate to admit it), but after a mild panic, I realize that outside of this weird pulling sexual energy there is a whole less explored creative world crafted by women that is as fascinating. A very telling example is Harley Weir. I discovered her last year in a special edition of Love Magazine, shooting close ups of Bella Hadid. A woman shooting women - but in a different manner than the over the top sex goddess representation we were accustomed to (cf Ellen Von Unwerth). This gives me hope.

Maybe the very patriarchal system that created its female icon was defeated right through her accessing the sex symbol status

I’ll end this article with a thought that occurred to me while I was watching, yet again, countless interviews of Kate Moss on YouTube. I saw the comments largely all referring to how fascinating she was, of course, because of her looks, but unequivocally, there was something more going on. Maybe the very patriarchal system that created its female icon was defeated right through her accessing the sex symbol status. Bear with me. Maybe, if you think those iconic women are solely the product of a sexualising male gaze, objects, you got it all wrong: maybe in reality what makes them so attractive, desirable, fascinating for so long (I mean Kate Moss is still REGULARLY on the cover of Vogue), is that before anything else, they are so free and in control, that the absolute fantasy would be to try the impossible and reduce them to submissive objects.

Maybe the flaw is in the expression of the system itself - you can’t ever desire what is completely objectified. I personally will be trying my best to stay behind my own gaze steering wheel, glammed and sexual on my own terms, whole, free-ish, and paradoxical, as always.

Mad Love