Miley Cyrus, Lady Gaga — these women have *won*. They are so crazy, so odd, that no one can sexualize them but themselves. “What are you wearing?” is always the female celebrity trap, and so Lady Gaga wears meat dresses and bubble dresses and makes the whole thing so insanely performative that there is no hope of making thing pseudonatural.
And drag: drag is so beautiful. It gender performance at its most pure form. What is everyone else ever doing, pretending we’re normal like it’s natural?
miley – more wielding than automatically fulfilling the wholesome girl persona, and yet she caricaturizes it. it’s ridiculous, and she seems to be playing a joke on the world
I think now about how Miley Chrus was the default character to make fun of for teachers in high school — and now, thinking back on it, it is so harmful. It perpetrates a form of misogyny. And yet at the time, it was so normalized, so obvious. And so I worry now about thinking about trying to condemn certain things; I don’t ever want to perpetuate something that may limit someone’s development. And so perhaps HB’s approach is correct: positive only, and mute on that which the individual may dislike.
Lady Gaga brought attention to performativity; Miley builds on that by performing those very ridiculous standards she and all women are subjected to: hyper-sexuality, then hyper-pure-ness. But of course, she must perform a caricature in her self-awareness.
This over performativity seems to me to be the only pure way of living, and yet — this seems a hopeless, disheartening path to trod.
Gaga empowers her fans to be what they want, because she understands that none of it truly exists anyway. But she empowers them on the level of personal happiness and not on that of self-awareness.
Has anyone attempted to recreate a complex person in their entirety via media?
KSI am thinking about her, and I am thinking about that one night we talked all night and she showed me all her books and that she was reading Lolita, and she seemed so very self-aware of her tragic, deranged wild-girl persona and yet still performed it, and though I now view her largely through AD’s eyes through updates, I think if I separate myself from that enough I wonder if she is still performing that persona with a keen level of self-awareness, and if she is in control of this persona she has created, and if she regrets it now, this sorority girl sexualized sadness she has curated.
I despise performativity for the sake of it: performing a persona in order to be perceived a way, for social capital. But performance for the sake of purpose — that, I feel in this moment of my great arc of thought, is important for me, to feel whole.
What would we discover if we automatically took pop music seriously? If we didn’t need disclaimers?
I an reactionary; I know what is wrong. But I am not strong enough or secure enough to then defend what I think is right. Is that cowardice?
This summer, in NYC, is the first time I’ve ever felt that I was not in control of how others consume my body — it manifests itself in a constant discomfort in public; a knee-jerk cringe at random encounters, at any attention —
And suddenly I feel that art is no longer mine to appreciate, to love, and it frustrates me that art has betrayed me in this way, and yet it is still beautiful and meaningful to me; I pass statue after statue and it pains me that they are still meaningful to me, that they may be one of the few things that are meaningful to me, and that perhaps this reaction I have to art is nothing but preconditioned notions quietly inculcated in me by another entity; I feel that my solace has revealed itaelf to be nothing but manipulation and I hate that which I cannot contol and yet that which ai cannot control what I need in order to let go, process, change —
The bike wheels are eerily smooth against the metal floor. The city is tinted in soft blue and pink roses of my jacket. I pedal slowly, slowly, so that each push exerts no effort, each push is a glide through lukewarm, thick air. A woman begs for a man carrying a suitcase to stay. She follows him into the middle of the street and pleads in the blue and pink light. She tucks a wet curl behind her ear from behind the window of a cab.