VOGUE copyright Conde Nast
© 2021 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
© 2021 KM Fikes
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without
express and written permission from KM
Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may
be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM
Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and
specific direction to the original content. No excerpt or link may be used for
monetary compensation.
VOGUE copyright Tyler Mitchell
intersectional absurdist captioning - credit KM Fikes
With respect to the dear reader's time, please begin with the 2013
link above - proceeding the BLM summer of 2020. All shall be
revealed.
Thy generosity proves restorative, gentlesoulfolk. One required
said pause prior to quillin'. Perhaps only the late novelist
extraordinaire, Toni Morrison, was more averse to penning missives on
white gaze. One abandons the inherent institutional inclination
in order to establish one's autonomy as artist, thinker, and basic
sentient being. Committed to the self-caring of 'centering', one
gleans Morrison's echo in response to Ellison's title:
"Invisible to whom?"
What a nod to the economic existential 'Trickle-Up'
Theory at work when protestors - to the soundtrack of COVID ambulance
sirens - took to the streets. To underscore "Matter".
Their call to non-arms after George Floyd's viral lynching caused the
highest echelons of cooperate entities to examine repazentashun.
Sum mused in open letters whilst others scrambled for the appearance
of enlightenment. Consequently, sum implemented change befo'
enuf insular investigation.
Letterpressed deep into the finest surface, engraved in solid
gold, or calligraphied in a flourish as lavish as the dexterous hand
may, an 'OUTTA ORDER' sign shalt neva express anything otha than
faulty plumbing in need of fix. There, upon the bathroom stall -
where we take breaks from awareness - such signage, unread, can cause
embarrassment. Like editorial deliberation for the choice of
cover photo shooting at the-of-the epitomes fashion
publication.
Again, one has grappled long with eschewing the angles of white gaze
- in not only practice but discussion. Instead, one chooses to
indict how its errors fail 'us' less than itself, sacrificing the
potency of priv. Kamala Harris is the Vice
President-elect. To be defined on her terms. As a woman of
both Caribbean and South Asian descent. Phew on the
firsts!
Granted, some of the blame is too many cooks in the kitchen -
with too much to prove yet no consensus so concise within Food
Network's mystery basket. The result is a recipe for
disaster with toxic brew exemplified. Vice President-elect
Kamala Harris' own team was present, picking wardrobe of her
choice - as should have been. Da final selection,
reportedly, disregarded Harris' preference:
VOGUE copyright Tyler Mitchell
The same young black photographer who broke barriers
with Beyoncé was at the helm. So were others. Present n' accounted for was the
excruciating task of making a 'cover girl' from a grown-arse woman
in an official role repazentin' the second to highest office
leading the 'free' world. Lookism was no stranger either -
looming. Harris fulfills the narrow societal norms of
conventional beauty. When woman deemed attractive achieve
positions of heft unparalleled, what is the correct approach: play
down pretty or embrace face full stop?
Fo'sooth, beyond difficult. Any attempt to appease all
elements, tiptoeing atop their own eggshells - a mosaic,
precariously underfoot, of cracked subliminal signals - will
assuredly trip up a blithe runway turn. And yet? What
for others is a Sisyphean boulder is quotidian upon a Sistah's
shoulder. The 'space' navigator of this complicated
presentation challenged by disproportionate nuance? She
stands vertical. A classic occasion to which women of color
have risen. On subliminal cue. For centuries.
A behemoth 'check' on beauty, the pinnacle of fashion
journalism? Could not deliver. A picture. To be
clear, sum'in specific occurred and the naming of it is why one's
avoidance of white gaze must be visited. The keenest
editorial eye in Da Bidness could not see. Priv rendered it
incapacitated. To discern. Its very second
nature? Choked. White gaze could not stop at the
imposition of film obscuring its eye; managerial throats
were coat...ed thick in their awe of white priv's
halo. The floater kind, marring vision,
creating distracting glare - surrounding 'object' - at
night. Nights
where mixology mythology distills 'orange' cognac cognitive dissonance. Harris,
then? Invisible. White gaze - eva priving - directly
grasped her image. Instantaneously, howe'er, their grasp
slipped. Because priv is not saint but sieve, she - still -
was neither held nor seen. Not as whole enuf to warrant that
customary cover's aesthetic inching of humanity just past our height. Or if too lofty a goal, a
portrait befitting stature would have sufficed. The final
word is from one mouth - consolidating all command. Those
lips green light below one nose. If those two nostrils turn up at a handbag yet in
production, the shunned accessory is pronounced dead on arrival as
it tries to premier on Bergdorf's shelf. Done. Neva
happened. Because dhem dhat hold down the castle were not
impressed. That is the level of taste deference which this
cover's depiction was supposed to receive. Nuttin'
mo'.
Would that February 2021's issue was the first time fashion's
lionized kitten heel misstepped. Many have attributed the
inability of the Camp theme to execute with resounding success at
2019's Met Gala as the appropriation of its roots. Susan
Sontag may have written of Camp in the sixties but it was her
disassociated observation of queer folk of color who invented Camp
as an absurdist response to identity persecution. Camp
allowed their taboo eyelashes to wink, giving them a coded claim,
comfort, and communal fame - to frame - amongst only those who could grasp the décor as bridge from ache to irony. Too loaded for heteronorm-colonizin' priv to 'hold'; extrapolatin' not what is critically heavy from that which is staged cleverly 'light'. Hence, an exclusive ball
documented by press o' priv?! A display hollow, where Camp
could only go to die. If Camp was not intersectionally
invincible.
Music is oft played during photo shoots - to apparently set mood for
a model and/or unite them with photographer in some symbiotic flow of
shared image creation. Lin Manuel Miranda wrote
The Room Where It Happens for his musical of another
historic duel. As John Bolton can attest, this phrasing - e'en
to a tune far less catchy - is too tempting for the titular
thief. All ethical persuasions understand well that 'being in
the room' is what counts. To being counted. Howe'er, many
who have gained access to 'the room' can testify - at length - that
entrance into 'the room' equates not automatic influence. White
women are oft subjected to Rebbeca Solnit's astute observation of
"mansplaining"; women of color are not. Poof! upon the blink of
white gaze, color is too invisible to justify his
lecture. When Sheryl Sanberg encouraged women to Lean In,
the advise assumed the "lean" would even be
detected. And if so, would not be perceived as a threatening aggression or
'attitudinal' posturing from which Sanberg is
immune. To lean is a form of body language. Therefo' one's body must be
acknowledged as first, a body of equitable measure, and second, as
present and thereby worthy to be 'read' within the same visceral
vernacular. How can a shift to "lean" be noted
otherwise?
Too o'erwhelmed, arguably by priv more than the stereotropes to defy,
the sanctioned arbiter of taste inadvertently conceded defeat. Incapable of
carelessness on the job, the editorial choice reverberates with
unsettling indifference. Not surprising but nevadaless
disappointing. There is an instructional distinction 'twixt
"sloppy" - as some have charged - and a more feasible oblivious
lens. There is equally a fraught history of certain citizenry
arriving in their 'Sunday Best', forced to count jelly beans in a jar
as a poll tax. Threading the subjective needle: to dress was an
invocation of dignity. Next week when Harris ascends to an
exalted position due to her party's ticket elected, a parallel
universe to that voter suppression spins on its axis. A Mario
Cuomo quote is eerily applicable - in retrograde: “You campaign in poetry; you govern in prose.” Harris campaigned in 'kicks' but this rarified portrayal
arguably proved impotent in relaying the transformative synergy 'twixt
'down to Earth' or 'of the demos' and on the...'hallowed
ground'...that her victory
leans stands.
One is inexplicably driven to quote another politician of a similar
inconvenient ilk: the second Bush administration defined "low
expectations" as "soft bigotry." The distinction is murky when the offense is not intentional and
defense tone-deaf. Elegance is a sensorial experience upon which
some have insisted when overtly denied. Tonality speaks volumes and the requisite glamour associated with
this endeavor swerved off-course. Seeking an attainable aura,
the editorial table took for granted that while it might forge ahead,
mapping a more relaxed route to mirror a society in dire flux, the
same whom it has been remiss to address cannot afford to extend the
latitude of eased alternatives in perception - rarely in favor.
When judged upon biased sight, 'impression' can meet discordant
resonance. Therein lies the conflict, an incongruence arced in
an ambivalent rind - H2Omeloncholic - within the expectation of a perceived visual media accolade.
The resolution is not in the cut of the tailoring of any suit, nor in
the lacing up of any sneaker, nor in the draping of any
background. What is accessible need not be as aspirational but it can be immaculately
inspired. The editors seemed to focus on preventing distancing
Harris from the reader. In a Tolstoyic episode, they oddly accomplished that familiarity, throwing their
already uneven reputation under their own luxury train. A deft
touch can keep an ensemble 'on track', flipping attire held
egalitarian on its head, whilst garnering praise for garb in an Instagram tweet. Industry cannot
intuit that depth of street savvy.
Quickly, to recover, one relies upon the Bard over W.'s speech
writer. One vacates keyboard typing to wipe fried grease from
one's fingertips - briefly hushed beneath a spotlight - holding up a
chicken bone:
Behind loco motive steam, a renowned meticulous crown morphed into a Kareninaesque cap. The quintessential 'style' publication abdicated its sartorial
authority. It simply could not read the lay-out...of an
awakening landscape. As unfortunate as their deer-frozen-in-Chanel-sunglass-ed-approach translated - breeching its own ethic
whilst boding ill for the wider ether's evolution - perhaps the
possible sterling lining to this hot mess of a haute couture cloud is
that like policing and other societal structures collapsing under the
weight of white priv, this recent dalliance with denial suggests
magazine monarchy should also be abolished. Or in a
subtler responsibility for the ramifications of its influence, it might consider - like Meghan n' Harry - quiet relocation from the seat of power. As no advocate of
the conscious-contentious 'cancel' or 'call out' nor unemployment,
one's impetus, sho' sooth, is 'calling in'. Hopes of dismantling
are wished unto ills that organizations possess. The exorcism
removes that incompatible presence haunting the host whilst said host,
well-heeled, is indispensable to the human project moving
forward. Notably - and to no minor measure - chic support for the tennis-phenom Williams sisters was earlier at Vogue than a fuller embrace of their elegance by their 'own'.
Further, one wishes not for the glossy itself to shine less bright -
for its September issue indelibly satisfies sum'in elemental. The excitement is unique - like the thrill of flicking that
flimsy cardboard window - just one a day - in an Advent
calendar. Let none be denied joy. Still, that expert eye
ain't as sharp when its prism bursts when blinded by the majesty of our rainbow
spectrum. Like Confederate monuments removed from the public square, perhaps
popular consciousness is betta served if a cultural pedestal askew
forfeits its throne at the collective newsstand - cornered - in our
minds. Crevices of the zeitgeist need no longer yield
undeservedly to a false hierarchical stamp of aesthetic
approval. As its own proprietary promise is to remain two seasons ahead,
it cannot be thus: awkward at least and ineffectual at most - to meet
this or any moment. Langston Hughes knew the imminent words in
his ...The Negro...In Vogue:
"When"...n'..."Was". Ay, a time frame(d).
Captured. Fleeting glory. One infers not, tho', any
cover's 'subject' as a trend. Nah, my good peops. That which is transitory cannot transform. Hugh's Harlem also
had a Striver's Row. (to)Front. Camera-ready, all up in the show. No longer dog-earing White Priv to crease in
consternation, that page is turned; Priv can no longer strike a pose.
a clever as compassionate critique
on the implausibility
of POSTness
Til our next 'post', feast upon produce in season...
© 2021 KM Fikes
© 2021 h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without
express and written permission from KM
Fikes is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may
be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to KM
Fikes & h2omeloncholy@blogspot.com with appropriate and
specific direction to the original content. No excerpt
or link may be used for monetary compensation.
