I no longer remember the events or impulses that changed me from a complacent kid into a tree-hugger of avid and lasting commitment. I was young, and the details of those years are, in many ways, murky. I became, and remain, an earth advocate. There are thousands of ways to contribute to the re-greening of our world, and still more ways to slack. No one living today in our post-modern circumstances can be 100% environmentally responsible. For sanity's sake, you must wade through all of the options and hand-pick those contributions or sacrifices that best suit your lifestyle, sensibility and budget. In some aspects you are stellar;in others, you fall far short of the ideal.
Even after two decades of environmental conscientiousness, there are some things that I refuse to start or stop doing. The compulsive consumption of periodicals is, by miles, my biggest vice. I can, at any time, be found on the subscription lists of a dozen magazines. Does subscribing have more or less of an impact on the environment than purchasing them in-store? Either way, shipping is part of the equation, whether to a store or my mail box, so the carbon cost is approximate. This is exactly the type of wasp's nest that so many of our choices can end up in,if we start thinking too much. However I procure them, they end up in the recycling bin and, as far as this particular toxin is concerned, I am content with that.
Shamefully, with a groaning coffee-table full of new, glossy issues, I sometimes remain un-sated. When this feeling descends, I impulsively buy something off the rack, usually something that can be flipped through with brain-power minimally engaged. This is how I came to possess 'Marie Claire', March '09.
I did not select it for its cover photograph or headlines.Its content remained a mystery to me until after I got it home. It won me over, not through any inherent virtue, but through its foreign nature. 'Marie Claire' must be one of the only fashion magazines that, since adolescence, I have never read. Not a copy, ever. Until, that is, a few evenings ago when, glass of wine at hand, I sat down to figure out what I had been missing.
Nearly all magazines of a similar stripe are inbred, fueled by the same re-warmed rotation of content. Ads, models, products, entertainment releases, celebrities and the serious subject (or two) of the hour concurrently make the rounds of the women's mags. If you wish to partake, it is simply a matter of picking your poison.
'Marie Claire', it must be stated,does fashion better than most. Its borderline haute-couture clothing is actually real-world wearable, exactly as it is presented on the page. No modification is necessary. Yet, a beauty column is a beauty column. So, the only long-shot chance a fashion rag has to individualize itself as a product of free-thinking creators is in its articles.The easiest way to do this is by polarizing readers with a controversial or polarizing topic.
I am pretty certain that, in the long history of fashion periodicals, which first found wide popularity in the 19th-Century, nary an article written under the banner of 'controversy' can be found to contain depth, texture or actual controversy. Clever writing + mild condescension + surface shock=a carefully crafted web with which to unite writer and reader in smugness. It is occasionally successful in sucking you into a furious eddy of indignation or horror but, mostly, it is a bore.
I was, therefore, all kinds of surprised to come across a piece of fluff, towards the back of the issue in question,that genuinely pissed me off to a visceral, jaw-drenching extreme.The content of the article, and its gratingly deceptive spin by the author, rather than its classic faux-controversy facade, is what so angers me. The culprit? "The Career Lift" by Judith Newman.In a less vanity-beguiled society, I would not have to dole out my time and words on such an article because its type would never have been set.
She uses her identity as a writer,and a female, to book-end her argument, an effectively intimate method when employed subtly and honestly.When used as Ms. Newman does, as a brittle device with which to mask her self-deception (only to later deny it so that the reader will think better of her),it is hollow and arrogant.
She presents, for our grateful benefit, a unique way to ensure job security even as the economy is seizing. It is certainly a concept of ancient origin and countless variation: survival of the fittest, in this case quite literally. Yes, the best way to guarantee job security, even as unemployment levels are climbing to heights not seen for many years, is to regularly sacrifice chunks of that hard-scrabble money to the plastic surgeon's knife or needle. What is a girl to do if she doesn't want to join the swelling ranks of the apparently wrinkled out-of-work masses? BOTOX! EVOLENCE! LIPO! Too young to have actual wrinkles? Consider it a career investment. You are, after all, investing in a future of looking indeterminately young in a world where, in spite of 40 being the new 20 and 60 being the new 40,30 is considered past the expiration date.
Let me be clear about one thing: I am pro plastic surgery and pro-anything that allows you to turn a confident face, and spirit, to the world. And there is, admittedly, truth to the notion that looking good can get you ahead--and keep you there. This is not revolutionary. The real departure would, perhaps, be to consider anti-aging procedures as a personal choice, one of many, and not as the first or only option.
According to her narrative,Ms. Newman caves to the pressure of earning her living by writing for the glossies. She has work done,lipo, and is willing to suffer, as most women are to one extent or another, in order to appear youthful in a workforce populated by nubile college graduates. She is flippant in her reasoning--she fears that she will soon be forced to work amongst fetuses--which lends a sly, scared poignancy to the article. She loses credence, respect and respectability with her back-pedaling final paragraph. Suddenly, looks are no big deal, they don't carry any "weight:; painful, elective surgery is merely a job requirement, reflecting nothing deeper than wanting to look a little younger.She tries to hack off the action from its full motivation, seeking to disavow all that went before; this effectively disembowels her article.
In reading about the superficial travails of the handful of career-women profiled in the piece, I realized that to be a career-woman in the 21st-Century, if you are to believe 'Marie Claire', is apparently to spend more time obsessing over growing old than actually working. I gave a silent benediction that, as an artist, I am not in the permanent employ of anyone but myself.Which is not to say that I am aesthetically undemanding or carefree. On the contrary.
I love fashion and would never, like Joan Crawford, leave the house without being seriously done-up. You will never see this writer walking the aisles at Meijer at 1:00 AM in a pair of sweats. I own one pair of jeans and only slip on my athletic shoes when I am about to work out. Noxema, expensive night cream and eye liner are my best friends.I have not left the house sans lipstick since turning 12 years old, way back in 1985. I change my haircolour and style as many times a year as possible, stopping inches shy of being called crazy or vain. This is my truth; I am happy to share it with you.Nor, for any reason, will I alter it after the fact to retain a veil of self-protection.
Will I ever embrace Botox or collagen? Absolutely, if I feel that it will make me happy. That, to me, is key and is the difference between free choice and craven acceptance of outside pressure. Botox your way to personal fulfillment not as a risky career move. And, once it has been done,be honest enough to give it the weight it deserves.
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