http://www.willowcabinstudio.com/finalhome.html

It includes my reflection paper.

Jane Eyre once said passionately to Mr. Rochester: “if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you.”

I learned the power of beauty by watching my older sisters and seeing the praise and attention they received for being pretty and dressing prettily and behaving prettily. I aspired to inspire such rewards, but I was fat and wore thick glasses and had frizzy hair with multiple cowlicks. From age 15 to age 35 I put more energy and diligence into trying to be thin and attractive than anything else. There, I admitted it. In those two decades I graduated from high school, undergraduate school and graduate school with cum laude averages. Which probably could have been suma or magna if I had spent less time running and more time on my studies. The most academically and professionally productive periods of my life are characterized by weight gain because I did channel my energies away from strict calorie counting and rigorous exercising. Oh, and I was married for 11 of those years, but had no children.

Thirty five is a significant age. I was not aware of it at the time, but now that I have so many female relatives and acquaintances in that age group, I can see how profound an age it is for women. In my case, I left my husband and embarked upon a period of bulimia and emotional turmoil that, when it ended, left me with a body that refused to be starved or over-exercised anymore. In three years, I grew from 119 lbs to 155 lbs. At age 40 I began perimenopause and had to give up running for walking do to chronic back pain. At age 42 I stopped weighing myself as a personal intervention to save my own sanity. At age 49 I don’t know how much I weigh, but I am a size 10.

Let me tell you why I tried so hard to be thin and pretty: because when I succeeded I was not invisible and I was overtly valued. For two decades of my life, I received more attention for losing weight and achieving beauty than I did for good grades in school, for working incredibly hard to put myself, without ANY help, through college and grad school, for working incredibly hard at difficult jobs, for getting married and for buying my first house. I’m not referring to superficial praise from superficial relationships giving me superficial appreciation (although I did get some of that). I am referring to people who really loved me, some who still love me, and cared about me. My parents, my siblings, my friends, my husband, would give me friendly “Good work!” praise if I got a good grade, or a good job, but NOTHING inspired more attention and praise than achieving a size 4 body accompanied by long blond curly hair and stylish clothes. Being thin and pretty is powerful. I was cast as the beautiful lead in several community theatre productions; I was favored at work by women and men who were as body-conscious as I. My husband loved to photograph me and would buy me clothes and tell me I was beautiful.

So what did I do when I just couldn’t do it any more?

Well, I got back into therapy and I learned to be invisible. Read this next part carefully, because I am not going to sugar-coat how hard this process can be: NO ONE, AND I MEAN NO ONE will ever say to you: “I am so proud of you for abandoning your life-long quest to be thin. It is so great that you gained weight and now you are putting all that energy and focus into being a creative and spiritual person.” Even your therapist will not say it. Oh, you may get bits and pieces of acknowledgment, but they will be couched in terms of mourning, as if you gave up the agony of chemotherapy to succumb to your cancer.  No one has the guts to say “It is not just OK to be fat again, I validate your choice to focus on your creative and intellectual life and to stop putting all your energy into your appearance.” If anyone who reads this post has ever had another human being say something like that to her, I envy you because you are loved more wholly and deeply and with greater understanding than 99.9% of women on this planet. (One of my older sisters, who is my dearest, best friend, has given me tremendous love and support in my life since 35, but she too is infected by the huge value place on mythological standards of beauty and is dealing with her own issues of letting go of many decades of being classified as a petite and pretty woman.)

Forgive everyone who cannot love you enough to praise you for your choice. Look in the mirror and say to that gorgeously perfect woman, “I get you. I totally support your choice to consciously stop trying to be pretty by others’ standards. You are not alone. You have me.”

I see the struggle in the 35-ish women around me, standing at the crossroads presented by physiology: some are taking the road to surrender and buying bigger clothes and letting their curves expand naturally, letting the grey hair spring out here and there, and doing the work to drop self-destructive habits such as smoking. Some are showing panic; hating me for photographing their budding double-chins and neck-wrinkles, searching their options for financing cosmetic surgery, leaving work early to do Zumba and constantly stepping on the scale. I see their wary looks around 20-something women and I see the efforts to keep the gaze of others on them… I understand that, I’ve been there.

I want to end with encouragement to all my younger sisters out there: finding your creative voice, as I finally did mine with photography, is the greatest source of peace and satisfaction that one can have. Relationships with others are vital, but they can never give you what you can give yourself when you find your bliss and say “F_ck off!” to your critics and make your own art and sing your own song and beat your own drum.

Please see the full exhibit here: http://www.willowcabinstudio.com/women_in_advertising.htm

The goal of this online exhibit is to both examine how images of women in consumer advertisements both reflect and dictate the perception and treatment of women in society and to present images that counter negative stereotypes of women as physical and social subordinates. Recent contemporary images using professional models are examined first, then mimicked using an average middle-aged model (to shift the gazer’s perception), who is then presented in more positive postures and poses. The purpose of this progression to educate and provoke critical consideration.

In 1979, sociologist and semiologist Erving Goffman created a coding system for interpreting images of women in advertising. In the introduction to his monograph on the topic, Gender Advertisements, Vivian Gornick writes: “Advertisements depict for us not necessarily how we actually behave as men and women, but how we think men and women behave” (Goffman, vii). Thirty-one years after publication, Goffman’s codes are entirely relevant and are used to guide the reader/viewer of this exhibit through the process of interpreting the advertising images she/he encounters frequently in magazines. Hopefully, the original images will be begin to re-program the viewer’s willingness to accept the negative stereotypes of the commercially published advertisements and inspire critical thinking and reflection.

Isn't this a victim of assault? The model is recumbant on the bar ground, suggesting she is not there by choice, but has been laid there by someone, or fallen down. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed, her mouth slack; she appears drugged or inebriated. The childish biting of her thumb indicates her withdrawal and uncertainty of her circumstance and self. Oh, a real woman bought a hand bag

Are they drugged white slaves? The models in this ad for the designer Roberto Cavalli are partially recumbant, indicating a passivity and lack of self-defense. One is shielding her torso, the other half her face, both impotent postures of self-protection. Their faces bear a lack of expression imitative of Barbie dolls. The short length of their dresses makes the covering of their crotches difficult and their legs as the focus of the foreground lead the eye to their upper thighs and buttocks, making them a sexualized display. A woman can wear a short dress and not be an object

Crime scene photo of a corpse? This emaciated young woman could be the victim of a sexual assault, lying dissociated or dead on the rough bark. Fashion can be empowering

Check out the full exhibit to see what I have to say about happy homemakers.

No, I am not gleefully child-like when I find a good cleaning product

Some ad executives are catching on: watch this new Kotex commercial on YouTube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpypeLL1dAs

Fear, Losing Control
In reality, children may attempt to hide extreme emotions through the ineffectual gesture of covering the face, or mouth, with the hands. Photos of mature women in advertising use this gesture to convey child-like, narcissistic and maladaptive responses.

A Child-like Gesture of Fear

Dissociation
A finger laid on the mouth or being bitten, gives “the impression… that somehow a stream of anxiety, rumination, or whatever, has been split off from the main course of attention and is being sustained in a dissociated, unthinking fashion.” (p.60)

It's Hard for me to Think

Gaze Aversion
“Turning one’s gaze away… can be seen as having the consequence of withdrawing from the current thrust of communication… since flight is not exhibited in this gaze… some sort of submission… seems to be implied.

I Submit

BEFORE

AFTER

The new study is Images of Women in Advertising. After a solid month of reading (bibliography coming soon) I have nothing but new questions, but isn’t that the way it is supposed to be? This post’s first question is “Why do we believe in the before and after photos?” My first example is of the magic of retouching photos – how some dodging and burning and color adjustment can take years off a face and make it more glamorous.

My current Facebook profile photo

In my short Friends list, there is a wide variety of profile photos: one woman used a photo of Hugh Jackman; then changed it to photo of her cat; a fifty-something neighbor uses a yearbook photo of her 17 year-old self. A relative uses a serene beach-scape; many choose photos of their entire family, rather than a single portrait; cute pets are very popular. One friend uses random photos of strangers, depending upon her mood.

For me, Facebook is like walking in a large social event where multiple conversations are going on. I can eavesdrop on all of them; catch up with people I care about and contribute an update about myself. I enjoy the congenial, casual and newsy posts.

As in “real life” there are are Facebook social dilemmas for mature adults. An advice columnists writes “I would argue that the rules of social etiquette are pretty much the same online as they are off. If these are people you feel uncomfortable ignoring, then hit “confirm” and let the natural course of Facebook events unfold: You’ll have a few exchanges; talk about old times, what you’re up to now; and marvel at how, based on your respective pictures, neither of you has aged a bit. After that, according to Darwin (and he knew his social-networking theory), any rekindled relationships that aren’t meant to be will die a quick, painless death” (Julie Rottenberg. “ETIQUETTE DILEMMA OF THE MONTH. ” Real Simple 1 Jan. 2010).

I am aware of the dark side of Facebook through my partner’s experience as a high school teacher. In his school district the teachers were instructed not to have any currently enrolled students as Facebook friends – this was prompted by a teacher in another district who was censored for communicating “inappropriately” with students. My sister, a private school teacher for 3 decades, shudders when I mention Facebook because she has dealt with several incidents of peer-bullying among her students. Yet, when I look at the profile photos of some of the young people I know, I am struck by how creative and humorous they can be: silly pet photos are also popular in the teen and twenty-something group, along with self-deprecating candid photos. I have to conclude that I am insulated from negative behavior and imagery on Facebook as I am insulted from them in my “real” social life.

I work for the State University and our new chancellor created a Facebook group to distribute information and digital media about university-wide initiatives and events and invite discussion on the content. It is a prolific group that sends out news almost weekly. I find the light, sociable sensibility of my personal news posts much more appealing that the long, detailed press releases with video and still photos released by the Chancellor’s SUNY group; they clash with my Facebook attitude. An interesting feature of the chancellor’s efforts are are the casual and personal comments made by some Fans. For example, this comment was posted to a press release about tuiton increases: “Was’nt there just a hike for 2009????? Jesus!” and to a press release about a SUNY arts and culture event, there is this comment: “i just apply for the undergreadt i love to be part of ur student.” As uncomfortable as I sometimes feel about the raw comments, I can see the significance of the democratic quality of communication allowed by Facebook. Ivory towers cannot remain standing in this environment and that is ultimately a good thing.
There are the articulate and frustrated comments that I think required great courage to send: “I answer a higher calling. I teach at SUNY. I’d like to continue. How about using some of your “scale and ambition” to see that I can. Good, caring faculty is hard to come by – but apparently easy to let go.” The Chancellor describes her Facebook group as “The largest collaborative discussion about public higher education taking place in the world,” and maybe it could become that if more individuals who are willing to write formally and thoughtfully are enticed into the culture of Facebook. Right now, the comments are infrequent overall and are either self-referential, or overt cheerleading.

Facebook offers a society without geographical boundaries that is simultaneously casual and controlled. One’s appearance, attendance and response are all flexible, optional and malleable. No one needs to know how you truly appear, or feel; there is no transportation necessary. A real-time social event requires preparation and presence of the physical self. Facebook makes no such demands; it allows us to simultaneously hide what we do not want reveal and share with our friends and family. The option of digital disguise is not the healthiest psychological aspect of Facebook, but it can also lower barriers to socializing and communicating.

I asked Maggie if I could film her talking about her family photographs and she welcomed me and my cameras into her home on a snowy Sunday evening. I have worked with Maggie for 8 years and the verbal memoirs of her family she casually shares with me are always fascinating and entertaining. I am encouraging her to write down her these memoirs that are so heartwarming, yet excruciatingly honest.

To me, this photo of Maggie’s father to me indicates an older man finding great peace and pleasure in his natural surroundings. It has a reassuring quality invoking pleasurable thoughts of contentment in maturity. Maggie’s description is poignant in the obvious love she feels for this man (who lived into his 90′s) and her lifetime of frustration with his proud and cerebral personality.

When Maggie showed me this photograph, I thought it must be of some aging hippy-liberal relative. I loved its sass and spunk, but its real story is about an incredibly strong woman who honored her free spirit while being a minister’s wife and mother of ten.

This next portrait could be a 1950′s advertisement for the Boy Scouts. The children look wholesome, attractive and sincere; the parents appear hardworking and proud. Everyone looks well scrubbed and polite. Meeting these people through Maggie’s incredible memory give them dimensions of pain, frustration and complexity. Her reading becomes my reading; her truth, my truth.

The only portrait of our entire family, 1966

This is the one and only photo of my entire family together, taken in 1966 at our 100-acre run-down 250-year-old farmhouse in the Berkshire foothills of New York, on the Massachusetts border. The only one. It was taken by a Catholic priest from our local parish, Father Sylvester. He used to visit us to bring Holy Communion to my paternal grandmother, an invalid my mother cared for until she required a nursing home. It is fitting that our one complete family portrait was captured by a Catholic priest. My parents were first generation Irish-Catholic immigrants. They believed in waiting until marriage to lose their virginity and that birth control was a sin, except for the rhythm method, hence my seven siblings and myself. My mother had her first child at 24 and her last at 44. She suffered post-partum depression after each birth and was clinically depressed for the almost 4 decades of her life after giving birth to my younger brother, the toddler sitting on her lap in the photo.

What would a stranger say about this photo? Gazing with a distance of 44 years, I am struck by the blending of DNA in our faces and coloring. My father and mother were very different in bone structure and coloring: my father was short, always a little plump, with black hair and unusual black eyes and olive skin – a true “black Irishman” who are thought to be descendants of Portugese fishermen. My mother had China-blue eyes and fair skin; was always slim and taller than my father. The genes fell in a variety of combinations, resulting many pairs of green eyes, hair shades from blonde to black and skin that could tan to rich brown, to skin as white and fragile as rice paper.

My sister who is closest to me emotionally describes this photo as a treasure, our only complete family portrait. And she is correct. I treasure it for that reason, but I find it very painful to examine for all the assigned and hidden meaning, for all the echos of pain and chaos that was our family life. We were not a happy family; my father was not a happy, empathetic or sentimental man. My mother was so often depressed, a victim of her religion and her reproductive system. My parents did not like each other and their frustration and resentment was a palpable presence in our home.

There is no family album for us; only scattered photos rescued and spirited away by me and my siblings. My parents were not sentimental about photographs of us and they were randomly shoved in shoeboxes. At one point my father burned my baby photos, along with dozens of other family portraits, with the excuse he was cleaning out a closet. Knowing my father, it was no accident. I have one surviving photo of myself at 6 months of age and then there is nothing until I am four years old, and only 3 of those exist.

At one time, I thought I was the only one who felt the punctum of our parent’s discord and negativity in family photos, but when I started to give restored prints of old photos to my siblings and received less than enthusiastic responses from them, it dawned on me that it was best not to assemble the scattered archives of our long-lost lives with my parents.

I am not sure what brought us together for this photo. My two oldest sisters were in college and living with my mother’s sister. My oldest brother was in the Navy. We had never all lived together as my oldest sister is almost 20 years older than my younger brother. My mother, and my sister standing directly behind her, are deceased. The rest of us are thriving on some level; my father still living independently at 91 years of age, still burning things he should not, still hyper-critical, insensitive and unsentimental. When I look at my mother, I regret that I, and the medical profession, did not understand depression better and that she never had effective treatment until her advanced old age in a nursing home, which were the most emotionally stable 2 years of her life. I remember the sweet qualities she had, which were so much more evident when my father was not home: reading aloud to us, sleigh-riding, playing board games.

And ultimately, I have to look away because I am too aware of the shadows of bitterness that are the emotional legacies of my father and mother and it is too hard when I am weary and alone to see them in myself, who is now the same age as was my father in this photo.

A reminder of a painful childhood

The studium of this toddler photo might be “a cute male child, dressed in play clothes, pauses while riding on his toy horse to look shyly at the camera.”

The punctum of this photo is supplied by the subject, now a man of 51 years: “I can’t bear to look at any of my baby pictures – my father had already left us by that time, after having an affair with our baby-sitter. My mother was about 20 years old and drinking heavily; I was not yet explicitly aware of these circumstances when this photo was made, but I see in my own face the fear, uncertainty and emotional abuse that characterizes my childhood.” The pain in this man’s voice and face as he gazes at his two-year image are so palpable that my own reading of this photo is now and forever deeply sorrowful.

Family portraits have no true meaning outside the family portrayed, and even within the family, there are many and ever-changing interpretations. No one can assume she/he knows the people and relationships displayed in a family photo.

I love this photo I took of myself and my three sisters. I think it reflects our personalities, if not our relationships. My sister do not like it because they think they it is unflattering. They wanted me to render my photographer’s magic and make them look younger and glamorous, which I can do in my studio, which was 1000 miles away at the time. I disappointed them, but I have to accept that and continue to love this photo.

My Sisters Hate This Photo of Us

Taking a stranger’s perspective, this portrait appears to be four middle-aged women related by blood. The kinship is indicated by similar facial features, enforced by the similar black shirts (suggested by the photographer). The smiles indicate positive feelings about themselves and their relationships. The truth of this photo is that we are not a compatible group, as a whole, and the day this was taken was not a happy day.

From left to right: my sister J.A., age 57, is an incredibly strong and independent woman who recently divorced her husband of 23 years to free herself from his chronic resentment and all its manifestations. In the middle is A.E., 51, who gave birth to twin boys just before her 40th birthday after retiring from the Navy as a Lt. Commander.

On the far right is M.M., 64, mother of 2 adult film-makers, resident of Hawaii for 30+, teacher of English for many decades, world-traveler… that’s me in front, the youngest at 48.

J.A. is my closest friend and the confidante of us all. A.E. is closest to me in age, but has always been so very different from me in every way that we were never close — we never overtly conflicted as adults, but we are like 2 people on separate little islands in a river who can see each other, but cannot make a bridge. I think it is somehow significant that our life partners are men who are so much alike behaviorly that it is eery.

M.M. is so much older than I that she is my god-mother; holding me over the baptismal font as I we relieved of my original sin. She was the darling of my mother’s older sister who protected her from the poverty and confusion of our large (8 children) household, put her through private colleges and willed her estate to her. She is even more foreign to me than A.E.

This photo puts us together as a unit we never were, with the similarities of features implying more than shared DNA. We are a testament to how the family portrait manufactures relationships that never existed. Someday, when we are all dead, someone will look at us and think positively of us as four strong-looking and happy sisters. Where is the need to disabuse them of what they assume?