The Power Of The V.

True to my “look at both sides” Libran nature, if I’m gonna bust on D-ck, I’ve gotta bring it, and call out Ms. V. For every errant picadillo of celebrity D, I am equally vexed by the perpetually hyper sexualized Ms.V.

I just saw the latest Vanity Fair magazine cover for their annual Hollywood issue. Posed in a “naughty” school girl/video vixen bralette, almost vagina skimming skirt and “proper” spectator loafer sling back pumps, is Oscar award winning Nicole Kidman. She stands in front of the gates of a lush flower garden and green Hollywood Hills, beckoning you in if you dare.

The online furor, according to the Daily Mail, is that her body’s been photoshopped. Not that a 54-year-old, grown ass talented actress, feels the need to present herself as a come hither ingenue for us to take interest in reading the article. Having worked in advertising, that photo shoot was planned and approved by a creative and editorial director and presumably by Ms. Kidman. I’m sure she has enough clout in this industry by now for consent.

Her expression and pose tell me she’s well aware of the power of her femininity, her sex, her vagina. She’s complicit and seems quite happy to use it.

I know I’m reaching back on this image, but years ago, Beyonce did an ad for DirecTV, singing, talking and dancing in a sparkly dress and ending on the floor, writhing around on a mound of gold objects. WTF!? What did that have to do with my TV service provider? I contend again, that she had ad approval.

Is this really the best use of our power? Why must we shake our ass, flash our breasts or reveal some leg to garner attention? To be heard? If we’re willing to strike a pose, then we are an equal partner in the objectification.

People ask me if I watched the critically acclaimed AMC series, Mad Men. I lasted about 3 episodes and was out! I couldn’t take the well written, beautifully shot, cloyingly sexy oppressive bastion of white male patriarchal image making. The consumer gods who sat on high, selling soap, cars and Americana.

My first job in NYC, in advertising account management as a trainee. The lads on the creative floor had a game. It was called Bowling for Babes. As we young, 90’s era fresh-faced, high-haired women in our pencil skirts, silk blouses and high heels walked the floors to pick up story boards or ad copy, they thought it was cute to roll a basketball down the hall to hit us and see if we would fall.

I worked labor intensive accounts in travel with local and national media, TV, radio, outdoor, newspapers and magazines. There were many late nights. After one such jag, I was sat down by two female supervisors. I was told I needed to wear my face every day, meaning make-up.

And my new double-breasted black linen Perry Ellis pant suit was not dress code. When I asked why, I was told our managing director liked women in skirts. This was it for me, I had saved up for that beautiful Irish linen and I wasn’t going down without a fight! I shot back, “he just likes to see our legs and my brain works just as well in pants, like the men in theirs.”

Women are some of the staunchest upholders of the Male Gaze and Patriarchy and are more than willing to cut another woman down if she doesn’t comply or fit in with their brand of femininity.

I’ve always believed that women need to play more team sports. To build our camaraderie and create accomplishments together. That sense of confidence you gain from testing your body and learning new skills. And how to value the unique attributes each member brings.

I’m glad to see more women as entrepreneurs, business owners, artists and influencers but dismayed that we too are robbing ourselves of our full agency and humanity with hyper sexualization. Time’s up for us as well to use our immense power for good.

P.S. Pants became a part of the dress code at the agency shortly thereafter.