A Girl’s Gaze
Confronting the desperately lonely, deliciously joyful horror of girlhood in Belgium
Let me start by saying this piece was written for women, for girls (those who are meant to know). Plenty of media, strands of words, or opinion-based pieces are made for men, made for them to settle into a pocket of relatability. Notice the explosive joy that comes from a place devoid of boy.
“We felt the imprisonment of being a girl, the way it made your mind active and dreamy, and how you ended up knowing which colours went together. We knew, finally, that the girls were really women in disguise, that they understood love and even death, and that our job was merely to create the noise that seemed to fascinate them. We knew that they knew everything about us and that we couldn't fathom them at all.” -The boys reflecting on the Lisbon sisters in The Virgin Suicides (1999), Sophia Coppola’s film adaptation of the 1993 novel
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
What a painful treat it is to be a Girl Girl Girl. Here, ‘The Girl’ title holds weight as a defined figure, a moment to be studied, an icon, muse, confused force of influence being celebrated and identified for the first time in any meaningful way. The Girl as an influence and architect of visual culture and fashion. The Girl who I selfishly connect to myself first. But truthfully I think I have that right. I think she belongs to me and I think she belongs to you too.
Girlhood is the cruel and dreamy depths of the in-between when curated desires and the first glimmerings of confidence are formed. Femininity – fundamental girldom – finds itself at the true core of influence. But here is where I second guess myself, because I don't know that I can truly describe the precise presence or absence of influence on a group like boys or like men. At least not beyond the factors of attraction, jealousy, or even domination.
What I can describe was the gut feeling, a familiar defensive one twinged with annoyance, brought on by the invasion of teenage boys against the installations. Their disregard for participating in a perspective they have a very simple disrespect for. Perhaps these boys, trailing behind sisters and mothers, were part of the selected backdrop. Because what is girlhood without being denoted to the unserious butt of the joke when you don't yet have the means to be combative over your own selfhood and its legitimacy. It's still too malleable and they are still too dumb.
That minute of annoyance (canonized by hushed derision and rolled corneas) could have been forgotten in the fortress of girlhood. A foggy minute of intrusion swallowed by the ecstasy of being identified in shared color combinations and whimsically resonate iconography and this kind of very common discretion of boldness disguised in secrecy. One big secret we've all shared, only to be divulged in the sanctity of girlish confidence.
‘GIRLS’, was stationed at MoMu Fashion Museum Antwerp until February 1st. Perfectly curated by Elisa De Wyngaert, the show highlights depths of complexity often out of focus. A descriptive performance “On Boredom, Rebellion and Being In-Between”. The show of shows celebrates the tender transition of the girl… stepping away from the fragile, subservient, monotone persona that has forever characterized her media capacity. Fashion, art, film and media are married through the collection demonstrating her cultural reach.
My favorite pieces were mostly of similar mediums. Recreated rooms. World building through a meticulously decorated space where meaning is placed in each object and its position. The bedroom as a space to try yourself on, abandoning what doesn't fit. The Virgin Suicides room, one of the first scenes of the exhibit, strewn with remenants from the costume department, anchored by a made bed, soundracked by a box tv reciting Sophia Coppola’s film on repeat. Three pristine cotton dresses, phantoms clinging to the open windowpane on wired hangers. One room over and sleep is the thematic guide. Artist Jen-Fang Shueh, the designer behind Jenny Fax, shows her own bedroom installation. One focusing on her childhood and family relationships. The secret, obsessive rituals forced out of her in order to harness control. The furnishing suggests her mothers dreams, pristine, private, European. A desk plastic wrapped like a gift basket, a voyeur to encased freedom. Looped visuals streaming from her pillow case: “do not obey in advance…”. The third and final bedroom was a scene by designer Chopova Lowena. The set was a story of maximalist conflict. A base of inherited frills and floral comforters buried by mounds of plastered posters and defaced dressers. The room became a shrine to emerging identity. A devotion to the collected treasures that inform this kind of maturity.
On the subject of teenagers and the pre-teen, this show introduced me to the near complete historical disregard for adolescence as personhood or the robbery of time for childish freedom. Young girls were muted and dissolved into sweet nothingness. Ribs were bound and socks were starched. Opinion and grime were demonized. Artist Meret Oppenheim has a piece on display under the “Archetypes” section that translates this idea in a really wonderful way. Her untitled piece, to put it simply, is a singular sugar cube in a gold-plated ring setting. Sugar and spice and everything nice, a 19th century nursery rhyme being the basis for the piece. The Power Puff tune is a dissolvent of girlhood into nothing but sweet obedience. A confine of her mental capacity.
Further into the gallery was one of the most thrilling collections, speaking directly to my own taste: “Girls In Print”’. The center of the room housed archival glass tables filled with print media, magazines, books, advertisements, posters and zines. The Bell Jar, Riot Grrrl flyers, Lauren Greenfield’s “Girl Culture”, and Self Service “Class of 1998” issue were my personal favorites from the selection. Girl studies is my most favorite form of higher education.
It Girl icon significance is part of that study. And as communicated by this showcase, Chloë Sevigny has seemingly found herself at the forefront of Girl world. She makes shockingly frequent surfacings in the selection of mag covers, editorial spreads and deck graphics. In the next room over, holding that chicly overwhelming bedroom recreation a la Chopova Lowena, Chloë’s CL campaign posters line the walls of the grungy dormitory. Her shoulder bag of piercing punk, East Village ingénue, catwalk crusading, high fashion literacy conceptually prepared her for Girl hall of fame (GHOF).
The theme that couldn't be ignored in this exhibit was the feeling of being seen. The difference in how we want to be perceived, to be thought of, and the fact of the moments when we don't realize we’re being noticed. The off-guard comfort that is no longer a performance. Artist Roni Horn’s This is Me, This is You presents 96 photographs of her niece taken over two years. Each pairing captures a subtle shift, from the posed perception of being watched to the unguarded seconds later, where personality slips through. Horn captures the space between wanting to be seen and simply being. A space I felt more comfortable naming on my way out.
Dragging my feet towards the exit, away from the haven of identity, I saw a group of older women, walkers in tow, tour guide at their bow. I turned to my mother and we wondered what they must be thinking. What they could be whispering about to one another. How their time, their favorite pieces, their interpretations would differ from our own. How mine might differ from my mother’s. It was precious and tender, a portal into the future where this essence of girlhood would feel farther away from me than it does right now. At 23 I can still reach my fingers back and grab onto the corner, and I imagine they can too.
So where is the line drawn in the sand of girlhood? When do you take your last step as a girl, make your last joke, wear your last girl outfit? Do you wake up on some casual Sunday morning as a woman, abandoning fantasy with an attitude adjustment? I think there is an intimacy, one so terrifying and pure and rubbed raw by the friction of constant change, so you'll never forget the girl, but you might not remember when she ducked out of sight. Girl is the foundation, the introduction to consciousness. The pull between dream state and nightmare that runs the world. You know you're still a girl when your very best friend still makes your ribs ache from laughter at 23 the same way she did when you were 7, and you're certain that at 50 nothing will have changed. You're still a girl when you frantically text, “what’s everyone wearing tonight???”. She's still there in pink glitter nail polish and heeled sandals in the summer. When the thought of identity is too heavy and confusing, but you still remember your teenage dreams, maybe you're even in the middle of one right now.
