Except that the cult of conventional femininity has internalised apprehensiveness. A subtly neurotic attitude chimes in with the ideal of a fearful, subdued woman. Even the figure of the tease, that male phantasm of disastrous femininity, a misogynistic notion of a femme fatale, is founded on a timid, soft-hearted element, which then wins over the man only to exploit and abandon him afterwards.
The surprised woman clumsily covers her breasts, coquettishly tilts her head, resting her cheek on her shoulder. With eyes wide open, she looks sideways: amazed, taken aback, perfectly petrified. Her pose is removed from overt emotionality. And yet I sense dread, looking at this template of female beauty. It exists, neither real nor necessary to endure fright. Instead, it exists as the illusion that only by artificially engendering helplessness among us as women, by proliferating relentless surprise and fearfulness, can we be attractive. This is something I can’t abide.
Dear daughter, please show the artist your finger of fear. Yes, that one. Yes, precisely.
