As we walked home from a rare date night out in our neighborhood, my husband and I dangerously flirted with time. We’d been having such a great evening, why not stay out a bit longer?
“We did tell Sarah we wouldn’t be home until 10,” I reminded him as we each took out our phones for quick consults. We were standing just outside a new pub, opened about a month earlier, that we hadn’t checked out yet.
“Come on. Let’s be crazy,” My husband smiled big as he swung open the door for me. As usual, I bee-lined for the bathroom, where I became suddenly and incredibly depressed.
Walking in there was like being swallowed by a massive porn vagina with teeth. The walls were plastered with Playboy covers. No! It was not the nude women thing that got me.
Marilyn Monroe, Anna Nicole Smith, Kate Moss, Lindsey Lohan, Jenna Jameson, Brooke Shields, etc. etc. etc. I was being drowned in overly retouched sorrow, and it made me want to puke.
I came out of the bathroom and ordered a seltzer. Stonily I waited while my husband bantered with the bartender. “Cool bathroom!” I heard someone say.
The subject is so complex, so already beaten down, I’m not sure how to articulate my thoughts best. All I can say is that history has taught us over and over and over that being idolized for physical perfection is lonely, depressing, and hallow. And we buy it up and serve it with whipped cream on top.
Is it art? Is it beautiful in it’s pain? Romantic in it’s tragedy? Fuck that. I’m finished romanticizing women who were abused, and pressured, and drug addicted.
I have great sympathy for anyone’s personal struggles, and the fact that they may become public. That sounds really horrible. So to be clear, I’m not hating the players. I’m hating the game.
Guess parenthood’s made me prude. And I’m really glad.
And on a lighter note, here’s some awesome young girls talking about how much it sucks to be compared to unreality, and how incredibly liberating it is to be stoked about their uniqueness. I love that this project is about putting the control of how beauty is expressed into the subject’s own hands.