Glossed Over

Karl Lagerfeld in Bazaar: Feminists Are Ugly

From “What Would Coco Do” in the September issue of Bazaar, wherein designer Karl Lagerfeld was asked to “channel the original fashion wit,” Coco Chanel:

HB: Your clothing liberated women in the 1920s. Are you still a feminist?

CC: I was never a feminist because I was never ugly enough for that.

Did your jaw just drop in disbelief? Mine did, too.

So, according to Karl-as-Coco, feminists are ugly. And it’s not just that they’re unattractive—it’s their very lack of pulchritude that made them resort to feminism. What constitutes “ugly enough”? Who knows? When I decided to call myself a feminist, it’s not like I was forced to parade around in a bathing suit before a panel of judges who determined whether I was unappealing enough to do so.

In Monsieur Lagerfeld’s Magical Gender Equity Utopia, beautiful women apparently have no need for feminism. Which is an awesome fantasy for genetic-lottery winners, but I’d rather live in a world where my worth isn’t directly proportionate to how closely I conform to whatever happens to be in style this week. I know, I must be ugly and insane!

Other than being a blatant insult to feminists, Lagerfeld’s attitude is troubling because it forces women into a game we can’t win. Within this rubric, a gorgeous woman’s sole quality is her appearance; and an average woman’s intelligence or insight is nullified by her embrace of feminism.

The end result: our only worth is the way we look. How’s that for ugly?

What W Really Thinks About Women's Bodies

This is model Lara Stone on the cover of the August issue of W.

 

This is Lara Stone modeling inside that same issue.

And this is Lara Stone in her underwear, also from the August issue.

These are some of the terms used to describe Lara Stone in the editor's letter and the article “Fashion’s It Girl”:

• “a little meat on her bones” (W’s deputy editor, Julie L. Belcove)
• “voluptuous frame”  (the article’s author, Sarah Haight)
• “a mix of a warrior and Brigitte Bardot” (designer Isabel Marant)
• “her body…a refreshing aesthetic shift away from the prepubescent boy figure that has lately dominated fashion” (Haight)
• “big, bad and beautiful” (photographer Bruce Weber)

And this is how Lara Stone describes her own body:

“A lot of people say it’s nice to see someone who won’t break in half when you touch them,” she says… “But I am still a woman and a person, and if you’re compared and confronted with your colleagues, and they’re all half your size, you think, F---, I’m really fat! And then on other days, I’m like, Oh, I’m not that bad.”

“Not that bad”? A woman who makes money posing in her underwear is “not that bad”?

The fashion industry—and, in turn, the fashion media—have such a warped concept of slimness that a model like Lara Stone is so much larger than her contemporaries that they feel the need to explain her presence. If Stone’s body is such an outlier, what does that say about the rest of us?

Worse, the magazine saw fit to issue the disclaimer that Stone “is, it should be noted, a very lithe five foot ten.” Why, yes, do note that! As if there’s the slightest chance someone is going to look at these photos and think Stone needs to, like, slow down on the Cheetos.

The article mentions multiple times that her look is a modeling-world anomaly. And that gives editors, photographers, and designers the chance to explain why they hired her—which is really just a whole lot of self-congratulatory masturbation about how open-minded they are, like they have to somehow justify (to us!) casting a woman whose ribs don't poke out above her cleavage. Yeah, they’re real body-image mavericks. What a revolution. If they truly believed that Stone’s shape is so enviable, why the need for justification? If the “meat on her bones” is so praiseworthy, why don’t we see more models with “meat”?

Her figure may be in vogue, but the rest of us have to live with our bodies no matter what magazines deem the ideal shape of the moment. Perhaps the industry could stop treating Stone like a freakshow long enough to realize how very hypocritical it is to praise her curves and how insulting it is to us when they’re compelled to rationalize featuring a woman with hips and a bustline. We have those. We get it.

Clearly, the fashion industry doesn’t.

Related: The Language of Magazines: Is “Curvy” Completely Meaningless?

A Rant: Miley Cyrus, Thigh-High Boots, and the Fetishization of Youth

Oh no! Miley Cyrus looks vaguely mature in the August edition of Elle—cue the outrage!

At 16, is Miley too young to be posing “provocatively,” as she does in this feature? Riddle me this,  universe: what is the proper age to don thigh-high boots and a push-up bra in a national publication? Can you imagine the uproar if Elle had photographed an older woman, say Helen Mirren or Judi Dench, in similar attire?

Our culture has fetishized youth. We worship it. Women undergo surgery and inject toxins into their faces to maintain lineless complexions. They wax their nether regions to a pre-pubescent smoothness. Youth and attractiveness are coveted and prized to an insane extent, but a young woman wearing form-fitting black clothes—you know, being youthful and sexy—is somehow crossing a line? Forgive me if I find Botox a far more insidious force than Hannah Montana’s cleavage. 

Sure, these photos aren’t exactly congruent with the squeaky-clean way she’s normally packaged. But so what? Is it so shocking that, at 16, she might want to be portrayed in the media in a more adult fashion? After all, she's been working full-time for years. In many ways, she is an adult. And didn’t we all spend significant portions of our teen years trying really desperately to be viewed as grown-ups?

I'd much rather see a teen star wearing sophisticated clothes in an attempt to look sexy and mature than following that time-honored tradition of posing in lingerie for Maxim. (Hello, double standard! Where are the pictures of Justin Timberlake stripping to prove his readiness to move beyond boy bands?)

All that said, I'm troubled by the pervasive conflation of sexuality with maturity. Can't we have the "not a kid anymore" story without the requisite trying-hard-to-be-risqué photo shoot? (Sorry, Elle. It's just so predictable.) Even so, the downright hypocrisy of a society that so treasures sex appeal but condemns women for cultivating it is far more damaging than a glimpse of Miley’s decolletage ever will be.

Cosmopolitan Doesn’t Want You to Die Alone

Most of the women I know who read Cosmopolitan say that it’s escapist entertainment—just a trifle to take their minds off everyday worries. I find that confounding, because not a month passes without a multi-page feature about how a young woman was murdered/raped/abducted/afflicted with an incurable disease—and how it could happen to anyone. Even you. Especially you!

The May issue fulfills this requirement with “Read This Before You Live Alone,” which begins soberly:

Life without roommates—for many young women, it’s near the top of their wish list. But living solo also can up your risk of break-ins and assaults.

Well, that seems perfectly reasonable. Safety is a major concern for most women, and we’ve been told our entire lives that being alone makes us more vulnerable.

But is that actually the case? Who knows? Although there are plenty of statistics about crimes against women in their homes included here, there isn’t a shred of evidence in the article that confirms women living alone are more likely to be victims.

And of the four victims mentioned, only one, TV anchor Anne Presley, is specifically described as having her own place.

…[Presley’s murder] implied a danger that confronts everyone—not just a semipublic figure—and perhaps single women living alone most of all. Rather than sharing an apartment with roommates, Anne was enjoying a life most women in their mid-20s lust after: She was rising in her career and successful enough to afford privacy.

What’s the implication here, Cosmo? That a woman must choose between financial success and personal security? There’s even an entire paragraph devoted to explanations that Presley lived in one of the “most affluent” neighborhoods in Little Rock, “not far from the Little Rock Country Club,” and surrounded by “wealthy neighbors.” Good luck, then, if you live in one of those “divey place[s] in a borderline neighborhood”!

Convinced to have roommates forever? Take a look at the next page:

5 Things Not to Put Off Until You’re In a Relationship

1.    Buying a home

Oh, so paying the mortgage alone doesn’t qualify you to live alone. Excellent.

Well, then, what is safe to do alone? In “50 Things to Do Naked,” the magazine suggests such life-affirming activities as watching Arrested Development on DVD, applying a deep-conditioning treatment, or arranging flowers while solo (and nude). Really.

In the event that moving some roses around in a vase doesn’t assuage your concerns, “Read This” does conclude with a helpful admonition:

One last thing: Don’t drive yourself crazy.

And that, at least, is easily accomplished. Step one: stop reading Cosmo.

Why There Are No Good Answers to Glamour's "Am I Normal?"

Maybe I missed the announcement, but is Glamour now being aimed at teen girls? In the years I’ve been reading it, it’s transformed from a level-headed publication that was a truly a source of inspiration to one that includes features called “Am I Normal?” and “Hey, It’s OK…” every month, obsessively declaring what’s “normal” in an attempt to reassure me that my behavior is Glamour-approved! It’s like the opposite of aspirational.

I might care about the magazine’s approval if I were still 14 and desperately trying to please the entire planet by being pretty, polite, and otherwise unremarkable. But when these articles are ostensibly written for adult women, declaring what’s acceptable for all of us is simply patronizing. Just because Glamour has the inside track on new eyeshadow colors doesn’t make it an oracle about anything else.

For instance: According to the April issue, it’s normal to marry a man for money…as long as he’s worth at least $1.1 million! And it’s okay for construction workers to leer at us on the street, because we women secretly enjoy it! While the magazine intends these as reassurances, it has the opposite effect: instead of convincing me that other women feel the same way, I have to wonder if I’m the only one who is enraged by catcalls. Am I? Go on, expel me from the sorority now.

(Never mind the totally hypocritical focus on normalcy when this issue also canonizes women who were decidedly extraordinary, like Amelia Earhart and Dolores Huerta. But then, Glamour’s idea of a tribute to these women is to dress actresses like Hayden Panettiere in crazy expensive clothes. Because, you know, Rosie the Riveter went to work so that she could buy herself some Dolce & Gabbana.)

This overweening harping on normalcy is even more insidious than the thinly veiled insults that pepper the pages of Vogue and Bazaar—the women in those magazines, with their jutting rib cages and designer ensembles, inhabit a completely different universe than I do. But Glamour’s attempt to reinforce its perceptions of the average woman’s everyday behavior marginalizes us in an equally significant way. It’s one thing to be told to “invest” thousands in a Balenciaga bag; it’s quite another to be told that your views on sex or money or work, topics you deal with every day, are unusual or wrong. The magazine’s efforts to reinforce what is “normal” becomes just another box for us women to squeeze into, just another set of unreasonable standards we’re supposed to adhere to. I don’t see how the encouragement to live up to everyone else’s expectations helps any woman exceed her own.

Vogue's Power Issue Is Less Than Empowering

I have a terrible cold, and it won't go away. Still, there's an upside to being home sick: plenty of time to read magazines! If there’s one person who can shake me from my Nyquil-induced stupor, it’s Anna Wintour. In an attempt to distract myself from the vanishing likelihood of breathing through my nose before Labor Day, I decided to flip through the March issue of Vogue.

Wintour’s monthly “Letter from the Editor” is, predictably, the usual attempt to make the magazine seem relevant by employing the most tenuous of connections to link fashion to a prodigious list of the planet’s ills. For instance: did you know that refraining from buying clothes is indefensible? Your inability to afford designer clothing is why people are losing their jobs! I'm not making this up.

Then, explaining that this is the “Power Issue,” Wintour runs through the list of women who receive considerable space in its pages: Michelle Obama. Carla Bruni Sarkozy. Queen Rania of Jordan. Melinda Gates.

And, not mentioned by Wintour, but appearing in a lengthy profile shortly after her letter, Silda Wall Spitzer.

Notice anything about that list of women? They’re all primarily known for—and because of—the men they married.

In no way do I mean to downplay or diminish the individual accomplishments of these women, all of whom are intelligent and successful in their own right. And I’m not suggesting that there be never be any mention of profile subjects’ personal lives. After all, if that were the case, how would Vogue manage its annual Jennifer Aniston sobfest?

I am suggesting that they include more women whose notability is their own. (To be fair, this issue also contains an article about Twilight author Stephenie Meyer—significantly shorter than the other profiles—and the usual smattering of celebrities and fashion-world types.) When the majority of ink in the "Power Issue" is devoted to women whose renown and influence streams heavily from their spouses, Vogue is either making a cynical observation about the state of women today or telling us that a woman's greatest accomplishment is landing a successful husband.

Not that I expect Vogue to become a serious source of inspiration. But it could be worse—this issue also contains hundreds of words about the apparently transformative powers of Plum Sykes' haircut. I'll take a story about a famous wife over the tale of a woman whose life revolves around her own appearance any day.

Cosmopolitan: Sports Fans, Prepare to Be Single Forever

This Saturday, as I have done most every Saturday this autumn, I spent three and a half hours watching football. (My team won!) Cosmopolitan would have me believe this is a bad thing.

In “Ask Him Anything” in the December issue, the magazine’s “guy guru” tackles a question from a reader who loves sports and hanging out with guys but can’t find love. What’s the problem, exactly? His answer:

Most men prefer women who paint their toenails, not their faces.

Because you can’t possibly be interested in both? And a man would never want to be with a woman who doesn’t use cosmetics at all?

We like being teased about our sports fandom and our excessive beer consumption, and we in turn (secretly) like the fact that girls enjoy more feminine pursuits like shopping or…even more shopping.

Speaking of football, I should probably get myself a helmet, because reading stuff like this makes me want to tackle someone. Where do I even start? The compilation of ludicrous assumptions in this statement is maddening. Let me see if I have this straight:

1. Shopping is inherently feminine.

2. Shopping is the sole thing women are capable of, apparently, since this guy can’t come up with a single other hobby that a woman might be interested in. Never mind that the pastimes enjoyed by women are often the same ones men like! And really, if this guy was just going to spout stereotypes, he couldn't come up with knitting? Yoga? Book group? Can we please get some credit for devoting brain cells to something other than our appearances?

3. Men do not enjoy shopping.

4. Women cannot enjoy both sports and shopping.

5. Men secretly approve of the very things they dismiss as feminine and therefore unworthy of their attention. I’m no psychiatrist, but I think any therapist would have a field day with that.

Common interests are terrific, and we’re psyched when you know what a touchdown is,

Mr. Answer Man is also psyched that his ladyfriend can, like, walk upright and sign her full name without checking her driver’s license.

but that doesn’t mean we want to high-five you every time our favorite team scores one.

…Just know that, contrary to what your buddies tell you, it might take a little longer to find that special someone while you’re waving a gigantic foam hand in the air.

Right, because there are no single men at football games and sports bars!

Just like different athletic leagues have different rules, everything changes once you manage to find a man who approves of your makeup-wearing, sports-shunning ways. When you’re in a committed relationship, says Cosmo, it’s time to give up the mall and settle in on autumn Saturdays and Sundays.

From “Smart Girlfriend Behavior: Do This, Not That” just twelve pages prior to “Ask Him Anything”:

Watch the game with his friends. Spending an afternoon on the couch with his pals says you’re easygoing and cool…and he’ll appreciate your making an effort to get to know his boys.

So watching the game isn't about doing something you enjoy—it's about making your man happy! The article goes on to advise against cheering loudly, chugging beer, and telling off-color jokes.

Let's put it this way: it's really hard for him to be sexually attracted to someone who reminds him of his buddies.

Clearly, Cosmo also thinks it’s impossible for him to be attracted to someone who shares his interests, skips makeup, or acts in any way like the people he spends most of his time with. No wonder Cosmopolitan is so obsessed with getting it on—from their perspective, sex is the only thing both men and women would be interested in.

The Headache-Producing Hermeticism of Elle's Editor's Letter

Nicole Kidman’s on the cover of November’s Elle gripping her head like she’s got a vicious migraine, and after reading this month’s “Editor’s Letter,” I know just how she feels.

Even the most hermetic of us (and if you’re reading Elle, I seriously doubt you qualify)…

Why, yes! Because I read Elle, I am far from insulated! I’m exposed to all sorts of points of view, most of which involve clothes I can’t afford, privileges I will never have access to, and lives I don’t care to lead. But whatever, my horizons are broad!

Oh, the irony. The rest of Roberta Myers’ missive explains precisely how hermetic the magazine’s viewpoint is.

But if you take away the actors and celebrities—and the film characters they play so memorably—it’s really hard to point to more than a handful of female public figures whose stories are well enough known to us that they present as archetypes to emulate.

Indeed! There must be a shortage of adulation-worthy women! That’s why the Olsen twins appear in every issue, right?

There’s Hillary Clinton, and Nancy Pelosi (quick: name one thing you know about her personal life), and Michelle Obama, and Cindy McCain, I guess. Sarah Palin??

Is Nancy Pelosi’s personal life critical to her “archetype”? Since she’s the Speaker of the House and not a reality show star, I think not.

Which is to say that the narratives about women (and sadly, for women—quick: try to name one female military figure) belong to the imagemakers and movie stars.

Because there are more prominent female movie stars than military figures, the latter aren’t worth writing about? If Elle thinks its readers can’t name women in the service (and I’d bet most of us can), isn’t that even more reason to cover the many, many women who’ve enlisted in the Armed Forces?

Because let’s face it, power in Hollywood reaches beyond its fabled zip codes into politics, the economy, culture both high and low—to hear some foreign policy wonks tell it, even national security!—in short, every aspect of our lives today.

If the entertainment industry affects our national security, explain to me again why we’re only reading about actresses and not those women in the military who are, by Elle’s own postulation, indisputably affected by Nicole Kidman’s next film?

Never mind! Let’s talk about men!

…Anderson Cooper, who is, sorry to objectify, just the most beautiful human on television.

Um, apologizing for objectifying him is pretty much contradicted by the very act of printing that objectification in a national magazine, but go on.

I am sure he loathes any description of himself that starts with his looks as opposed to his hard-won journalistic chops, but perhaps he gets some of the same kind of pleasure that constantly underestimated, beautiful women receive when they succeed at something other than just being good-looking.

Perhaps. Or, you know, perhaps he doesn’t find it pleasurable when people are surprised to discover that he’s competent.

Mercifully, the letter ends shortly thereafter—with, what do you know, an Olsen mention. After tackling that page, I completely understand why Nicole’s head might be throbbing. Good news, though: Botox alleviates headaches!

On second thought, Nicole? Forget I mentioned it.

Mariska Hargitay's Skewed Self Assessment

Is Mariska Hargitay’s appraisal of her body self-deprecation, the misuse of a term commonly used to mean “plus-sized,” or the result of working in an industry where breakfast is a cigarette and a swig of Starbucks? I don’t know, but it depresses the hell out of me.

In the midst of an otherwise resoundingly sane statement about eating in moderation, she describes herself in a jaw-dropping way. From Self’s “Living the Joy,” November:

“I’m a full-figured woman.”

I can’t decide what’s sadder: the idea that the healthy-looking Hargitay is a Hollywood version of full-figured, or that actresses with sharp-as-knives shoulder blades are considered so average that, in comparison, she actually is.

Why Allure Can't Let Carrie Underwood Be Happy

If there’s one thing that women’s magazines are about—other than, you know, hawking appallingly expensive stuff no one needs—it’s self-improvement. Every month, there are breathless reports on how to drop those extra pounds, science updates on the latest research proven to kick start our sex lives. In every issue, there’s a new technique for getting noticed in the office, another suggestion for dressing to hide figure flaws. (It’s always a v-neck wrap dress. I’ve seen that particular solution so many times I’m nearly convinced the right Diane von Furstenberg frock could settle the conflict in Georgia.) The message? You’re inadequate! But, with practice and some cash, you might one day measure up!

So what are we readers supposed to make of it when an article about someone who’s generally triumphed over such magazine-mandated adversities focuses on her dissatisfaction with her life?

That’s the case of “Country Girl,” the profile of Carrie Underwood in the September issue of Allure. As spelled out in excruciating detail, Underwood’s life veers close to the ideal perpetuated in women’s mags: She’s trumped the sexism of the country music scene to launch a spectacular career; she dates a constant stream of attractive, famous men; she has the money to indulge in luxuries; and her looks (including, yes, her precise weight) are described in rapturous terms. All of which is why I was surprised to discover that the article leans much more heavily on Underwood’s worries than her successes. According to the piece, Underwood is scared. She frets that her earning power may come to a halt, that her few splurges may alienate her fans; she worries about building a lasting relationship. She spends too much on clothes and notes that all her friends are married with children.

Even though these are concerns that resonate with many of us (if not quite on par with Underwood’s distress about a $2,500 Dolce & Gabbana sweater), it seems like Underwood should be celebrating. Actually, it seems like Allure should be recognizing a woman who’s conquered the same foes it counsels the rest of us to vanquish.

That I can’t fully relate to Underwood’s problems doesn’t make them less valid, and I understand the imperative to posit famous people as, well, actual people. I’m not lobbying for celebrity hagiographies in the glossies, but an emphasis on the shortcomings of a woman notable enough to land a magazine cover in the first place, combined with the anti-aging and diet advice in every issue, further reinforces the message that the rest of us are inadequate. There’s nothing wrong with encouraging self-improvement or aspiration or even faking it with that wrap dress. But there is something wrong with a system that doesn’t celebrate those who’ve already achieved the kind of success the rest of us are striving for—especially when it’s the kind of success these same magazines claim to help us attain.