In the middle of this summer, I was booked to shoot for a new lingerie brand. The rate was on the low side (about 60% of industry standard pay per hour), but I’m a fresh college grad reluctant to turn down good money, so I agreed. The day before the shoot, the casting director contacted me and said that they couldn’t pay me, but would be able to offer trade. (Instead of money, would I accept compensation in bras?) That really doesn’t cut it, but I conceded. I had already committed, and didn’t want to develop a reputation as difficult or flaky that would injure me in the long run. Plus, she emphasized that the founders didn’t have two pennies to rub together, and as the editor of a magazine run entirely on volunteer labor, I sympathize with the underfunded. They couldn’t pay for a makeup artist, so I would do my own makeup beforehand. I brought my own jeans. I would be in and out in two hours.
When I got there, I was stunned to find that they had rented an enormous, beautiful studio for multiple days and many thousands of dollars. The place was littered with technicians strapped with expensive, bulky video equipment, which also surprised me. There was a makeup artist with an assistant and a full kit, a hair stylist, a clothing stylist, and catering that cost twice my day rate. Later that evening, the French supermodel Camille Rowe was flying in to be photographed for the launch. The makeup artist leisurely redid my entire face, and over two hours had passed before I even started shooting.
I took some quick, run-of-the-mill photos before moving to video—which no one had told me I was expected to do. I was shoved into a too-small bra because they didn’t have my size, and positioned on a solitary stool, lit so my face acquired the beautiful, highly-detailed stoicism of a Time magazine cover. I was asked to state my name and bra size—confidently, looking directly at the camera, as though I had overcome some challenge—and then interrogated about my inevitably vexed relationship to my breasts and the modern bra market. Every question was a leading one: “Isn’t it horrible that…?” “Don’t you wish…?” And nearly every one was completely asinine, treating complicated feminist social problems with simple capitalist remedies. No, my life has not been marred by traumatizing bra shopping experiences. I like the two bras that I own and I bought them painlessly on the Internet. No, they’re not particularly uncomfortable. I can’t speak to the epiphany I experienced when you told me my “true size,” because your system of measurement is just as arbitrary as everyone else’s. No, I don’t understand how a new bra will somehow shield me from the wandering eyes of men I don’t want while attracting the men I do. I don’t understand how it’s possible to be sexy “for myself.” (I’m sure the videographer’s botox and lip fillers were “for herself,” too.) And I definitely don’t see how the freedom of movement I’m supposed to gain with a more comfortable bra remotely simulates the real freedom I desire.
Of course I did not say these things; I dissimulated, I think rather badly. At the end of the video, I had to rhapsodize about the superiority of this too-small bra I’d worn for a total of ten minutes to every other bra I’ve ever used, and describe how I’ve been rescued from the sexual oppression of men and bra-makers, which (surprise!) makes me look and feel hotter than ever. The final question was, simply, “How do you feel?” I begged myself not to say “liberated” or “unburdened,” which created an awkward pause. So I blabbed, “I feel independent?” and scurried out red-faced. I have yet to receive my payment in bras.
I have made a small career in the industry of creating advertisements for female consumers, which means that I have broader knowledge of the stuff of buzzy fashion startups and social media influencers than I’d like to admit. The baffling cocktail of feminist problems packaged in pro-capitalist solutions typified by this lingerie branding is nothing new, and has only proliferated in recent years. But this shoot felt like a particular violation; even worse than the egregious labor practices and obvious abuse of my work was the expectation, without my consent, that I was to narrativize my experience as a woman, using my own name, in such a way as to suggest that the real struggles of women against patriarchal oppression could be alleviated, magically, by buying a bra that costs more than ninety six percent of those purchased annually by American women. Speaking under beams of hot studio light, ineptly attempting to strike the perfect balance of elegance and false bravery culminated in a scene so extreme in its failure to approximate genuine social good that it toppled into bathos.
I refuse to participate in “brand partnerships,” which require people (overwhelmingly women) to use their identities on social media to market brands and influence the consumer behavior of their followers in exchange for promotion and free product. I still field requests for this regularly. A particularly ridiculous proposition I received last week was from a company that sells loose leaf tea that supposedly “enhances female intuition, self-reflection, and witchyness.” I am constantly receiving targeted ads from high-end cosmetics brands, urging me to bite the bullet and give myself “what I deserve.” The hugely popular women’s luxury coworking space The Wing recently held an event promoting the American Express Platinum credit card veiled as a day of “Extreme Self-Care.” Even the fifteen-year-old teen star Jojo Siwa is versed in the argot, insisting that her pricey and coveted line of technicolor hair bows is a “symbol of power, confidence, believing-ness.” The supermodel Emily Ratajkowski, who trumpets her identity as an activist, feels compelled to designate her every move (usually her frequent and “controversial” displays of nudity) as a feminist act. Defending a video in which she massages herself with oiled spaghetti while gazing hungrily at the camera, she wrote on Instagram: “Being sexy is fun and I like it…Feminism is about the choices we make, and the freedom we have to make personal choices without judgment or retribution.”
I am grateful for the fact that I am just one of many to condemn the utter bastardization of radical feminism that has dominated the fourth wave, where tag lines like “the woman’s choice,” which originated in battles over health and marital legislation, now defend arguments like Ratajkowski’s: that women should be free to do whatever they want without judgment or retribution because their gender identity inexplicably transcends the capacity for destructive behavior. Critics often call it “lifestyle feminism.” Lifestyle feminism was first discussed by bell hooks in Feminism Is for Everybody, where it denoted a feminism so drained of any commitment to radicalism or self sacrifice that it becomes merely aesthetic—serving a decorative function in atomized lives.
by Sophia Richards, Politics/Letters | Read more:
Image: uncredited
When I got there, I was stunned to find that they had rented an enormous, beautiful studio for multiple days and many thousands of dollars. The place was littered with technicians strapped with expensive, bulky video equipment, which also surprised me. There was a makeup artist with an assistant and a full kit, a hair stylist, a clothing stylist, and catering that cost twice my day rate. Later that evening, the French supermodel Camille Rowe was flying in to be photographed for the launch. The makeup artist leisurely redid my entire face, and over two hours had passed before I even started shooting.I took some quick, run-of-the-mill photos before moving to video—which no one had told me I was expected to do. I was shoved into a too-small bra because they didn’t have my size, and positioned on a solitary stool, lit so my face acquired the beautiful, highly-detailed stoicism of a Time magazine cover. I was asked to state my name and bra size—confidently, looking directly at the camera, as though I had overcome some challenge—and then interrogated about my inevitably vexed relationship to my breasts and the modern bra market. Every question was a leading one: “Isn’t it horrible that…?” “Don’t you wish…?” And nearly every one was completely asinine, treating complicated feminist social problems with simple capitalist remedies. No, my life has not been marred by traumatizing bra shopping experiences. I like the two bras that I own and I bought them painlessly on the Internet. No, they’re not particularly uncomfortable. I can’t speak to the epiphany I experienced when you told me my “true size,” because your system of measurement is just as arbitrary as everyone else’s. No, I don’t understand how a new bra will somehow shield me from the wandering eyes of men I don’t want while attracting the men I do. I don’t understand how it’s possible to be sexy “for myself.” (I’m sure the videographer’s botox and lip fillers were “for herself,” too.) And I definitely don’t see how the freedom of movement I’m supposed to gain with a more comfortable bra remotely simulates the real freedom I desire.
Of course I did not say these things; I dissimulated, I think rather badly. At the end of the video, I had to rhapsodize about the superiority of this too-small bra I’d worn for a total of ten minutes to every other bra I’ve ever used, and describe how I’ve been rescued from the sexual oppression of men and bra-makers, which (surprise!) makes me look and feel hotter than ever. The final question was, simply, “How do you feel?” I begged myself not to say “liberated” or “unburdened,” which created an awkward pause. So I blabbed, “I feel independent?” and scurried out red-faced. I have yet to receive my payment in bras.
I have made a small career in the industry of creating advertisements for female consumers, which means that I have broader knowledge of the stuff of buzzy fashion startups and social media influencers than I’d like to admit. The baffling cocktail of feminist problems packaged in pro-capitalist solutions typified by this lingerie branding is nothing new, and has only proliferated in recent years. But this shoot felt like a particular violation; even worse than the egregious labor practices and obvious abuse of my work was the expectation, without my consent, that I was to narrativize my experience as a woman, using my own name, in such a way as to suggest that the real struggles of women against patriarchal oppression could be alleviated, magically, by buying a bra that costs more than ninety six percent of those purchased annually by American women. Speaking under beams of hot studio light, ineptly attempting to strike the perfect balance of elegance and false bravery culminated in a scene so extreme in its failure to approximate genuine social good that it toppled into bathos.
I refuse to participate in “brand partnerships,” which require people (overwhelmingly women) to use their identities on social media to market brands and influence the consumer behavior of their followers in exchange for promotion and free product. I still field requests for this regularly. A particularly ridiculous proposition I received last week was from a company that sells loose leaf tea that supposedly “enhances female intuition, self-reflection, and witchyness.” I am constantly receiving targeted ads from high-end cosmetics brands, urging me to bite the bullet and give myself “what I deserve.” The hugely popular women’s luxury coworking space The Wing recently held an event promoting the American Express Platinum credit card veiled as a day of “Extreme Self-Care.” Even the fifteen-year-old teen star Jojo Siwa is versed in the argot, insisting that her pricey and coveted line of technicolor hair bows is a “symbol of power, confidence, believing-ness.” The supermodel Emily Ratajkowski, who trumpets her identity as an activist, feels compelled to designate her every move (usually her frequent and “controversial” displays of nudity) as a feminist act. Defending a video in which she massages herself with oiled spaghetti while gazing hungrily at the camera, she wrote on Instagram: “Being sexy is fun and I like it…Feminism is about the choices we make, and the freedom we have to make personal choices without judgment or retribution.”
I am grateful for the fact that I am just one of many to condemn the utter bastardization of radical feminism that has dominated the fourth wave, where tag lines like “the woman’s choice,” which originated in battles over health and marital legislation, now defend arguments like Ratajkowski’s: that women should be free to do whatever they want without judgment or retribution because their gender identity inexplicably transcends the capacity for destructive behavior. Critics often call it “lifestyle feminism.” Lifestyle feminism was first discussed by bell hooks in Feminism Is for Everybody, where it denoted a feminism so drained of any commitment to radicalism or self sacrifice that it becomes merely aesthetic—serving a decorative function in atomized lives.
by Sophia Richards, Politics/Letters | Read more:
Image: uncredited
