348. Dear Christian Dior, your Shanghai Dreamers campaign is bromidic, lame, and example 253284293847289 of Orientalism, and we’re supposed to find it brave and exciting and new?
July 30th, 2010 § 55 Comments
I’m not sure I can go another day without posting the pictures from Christian Dior’s new ad campaign, ‘Shanghai Dreamers.’ Check it out, friends:







All photos from Tom and Lorenzo’s Projectrungay
I have a ton of thoughts about this, mostly 1) What the fuck? Parading this tired bullshit again? Can a person yawn and barf at the same time if that person is me and I’m not tired or nauseous, just so sick of seeing this over and over and over and over and over and over again? (All of those links will take you to the amazing ladies of Threadbared, who are always on the ball when it comes to fashion’s enduring predilection for using people of color as background and/or props.)
And 2) Doesn’t this creepily remind of you when Gwen Stefani was in her Harajuku Girls phase,after she decided to get over Indian culture and appropriate Japanese street culture instead?
During her Harajuku phase, Gwen physically outfitted herself with four Japanese women, who were, of course, a good two feet shorter than her (making the visual image of a very familiar Orientalist narrative of domination and subordination all but undeniable,) and were all dressed the exact same in contrast to Stefani’s wildly differentiated and individualized outfit (to visually reinforce the same tired trope of the simultaneous conformity and weirdness of Japanese culture, even though Ms. Stefani was the one who picked their outfits!) For more than a year, Gwen paraded herself around in public with these four Japanese women serving as the background to her fashion statement, with virtually no public outcry or criticism, except for the incandescent and brave Margaret Cho. How much more obvious can objectification look? Just look at this photo. Gwen’s Harajuku girls are meant to look like objects, while Gwen stands out as the clear subject. She gets to be an actual person who can articulate and exert her personality, which is defined against the backdrop of undifferentiated small, Asian, female bodies. Dior’s Shanghai Dreamers campaign is no different.
Going back through some of the wonderful archives over at Threadbared under the category of ‘Fashioning Race,’ I revisited Mimi’s essay, “Background Color, Redux II,” where she quotes from art historian James Smalls’ essay, “Slavery is a Woman,”:
A recognized example of the standard representation of blacks in European art is provided by Jean-Marc Nattier’s 1733 Mademoiselle de Clermont at Her Bath Attended by Slaves. (Fig. 2) There, black women are shown in their expected roles as servants and exoticized complements to the white mistress. [...] The portrait constitutes a visual record of white woman’s construction and affirmation of self through the racial and cultural Other. [...] The black woman’s headwrap and partial nudity are signs that mark her as different from white womanhood. As well, they constitute visible markers of white woman’s command over black woman’s labor.
In the case of Dior’s ‘Shanghai Dreamers,’ the conformity and the old-fashioned appearance of the rows and rows of repeated Chinese faces and bodies only serve to constitute a visual record of the Western world’s construction and affirmation of self through the racial and cultural other. If Chinese people from a certain era (and to be quite uncharitable, I don’t believe Christian Dior knows what era of Chinese photography and life he is referencing when he says, “My inspiration came from a certain Chinese style of group photography but these ceremonial photographs marks a departure from a certain historical period and herald the future,”) represent how oppressive Chinese society is and how indistinguishable Chinese people are, then it must mean that European and American societies are so free and liberated and individualized!
I’m so tired of hearing about how scary and conformist China used to be (and might I mention, always hearing about it from people who AREN’T ACTUALLY CHINESE AND DIDN’T LIVE THROUGH SAID SCARY TIMES.) Can someone, for once, actually ask a Chinese person who lived through the scary sixties and seventies what it was like and how they see themselves? To all future fashion designers and artists who want to capitalize on the current cultural fascination with China (aka Yellow Peril Redux), I can give you my mom and my dad and my entire extended family’s phone numbers, and Mister Christian Dior (and Karl Lagerfield and the folks over at Chanel who were behind that awful video about Shanghai,) you can call them up and ask them what it felt like to live through the Cultural Revolution in China. Because I promise you, they won’t mince words about how difficult of a time it was to live through, they won’t forget to mention all of the loved ones that disappeared or died or were imprisoned or went crazy, but I don’t think for a moment that my mom or my dad or my aunts or my uncles would recognize themselves in your stupid fucking photos.
And on the subject of conformity and democracy, we seriously need to talk about our own scary and conformist ideals of beauty and feminity and fashionability, and thank goodness for Natalie for starting the conversation with her posts, “The best argument against the evidence of democracy in fashion is a conversation with a fat woman,”and “Rejecting the notion of the flattering outfit.” And I’m not even going to get into the plenitude of other arenas of oppression and conformity and inequality in American and European societies.
I keep thinking of David Foster Wallace’s speech/essay on why Kafka is funny (you can listen to it here,)and the moment when he asks us to take a cliche literally. For example, what does it mean if someone is actually ‘creepy?’ (Hi Gregor Samsa.) What about the uneasy and repugnant relationship of the photos in Dior’s Shanghai Dreamers campaign to the fairly commonly trotted out comment in reference to Asian people, “You all look the same?” Has any Asian person in America been spared of this comment? I certainly haven’t, and neither have my friends and family. If a random dude says that to me in a gas station, is it any less innocent or sinister than if Christian Dior decides to say the very same thing at his Dior storefront on Huaihai Lu in Shanghai?
By the way, I know a lot of people have defended this campaign by pointing out that a Chinese photographer, Quentin Shih, shot these photos, but that argument doesn’t make any sense. Just because there are people of color working in the police force and in the courts, that doesn’t negate and invalidate the structures of racism that exist in the criminal justice system? When Margaret Cho spoke out against Gwen Stefani’s use of her Harajuku girls, one of the girls, Nakasone-Razalan, responded by defending Gwen and her own choice to be part of Gwen’s posse. Well, yes, racism is very complicated, isn’t it? How many white people are okay with the statement, “Every single white person is a vehement and vicious racist?” Find me five and I’ll buy them lunch. Well, the flip side of that argument is also not okay. The fact that these photos were shot by a Chinese photographer does little to change or erase the entire history and tradition and institution of Orientalism and imperialism and racism, which is also why any argument that starts with, “My best friend/fiance/wife/husband/stepbrother/cousin/blah blah is [insert X race/ethnicity] so I’m definitely not racist, and he/she doesn’t find it racist either!” is so profoundly pitiful.
I’m not presuming to know anything about the photographer for Shanghai Dreamers, but let me tell you that some of the saddest moments I’ve experienced were ones when I or someone I know tried to express frustration or anger at an instance of bigotry/racism/sexism/homophobia etc and a fellow woman/person of color/gay person/etc joins the conversation to say, “Actually, I wasn’t offended at all,” which is just as valid as someone saying that they did feel it was racist/sexist/homophobic/whatever, but when there’s someone who doesn’t want to feel like he/she is a racist/sexist/privileged ignoramus, inevitably such a comment leads to a complete discredit of the original spirit of the conversation, and it comforts the person who is terrified of seeing himself/herself as complicit in an unjust world–it allows that person to take a deep sigh of relief and think, “Ah, good. See? This woman, this person of color didn’t find the situation racist or sexist at all. That other woman/person of color was just being overly sensitive. I knew it. I knew I wasn’t a bad person.”
Maybe if we stop worrying about being bad people, we can actually begin to see what’s right in front of us–in this case, another instance of just how little the fashion world wants some of us to be seen.
With love and fury,
Jenny
Edit (Wednesday, 8/4/10): Holy bagels, I just wanted to say thank you thank you to everyone who has been supporting and commenting on this post. It means a lot, and I’m super excited that this post was syndicated by Jezebel today! I really appreciate some of the comments that bring up the issues of authorship and intent, and I haven’t even begun to sift through some of the comments on Jezebel, but a quick glance in between packing boxes of books (I’m moving in two days) reminded me that there’s still so much to explore and think about with regards to this Christian Dior campaign.
I should also note that when I refer to ‘Christian Dior,’ I am referring to the brand as a holistic entity, because I’m not entirely sure who the chief movers and shakers behind this campaign really are (John Galliano? Galliano’s creative team? Quentin Shih?) And my apologies for not making that clear and taking a lazy short cut. I think I accidentally used Christian Dior as the antecedent for a ‘he’ somewhere in the post, and that’s also just my sloppiness.
347. I agree with Sir Luscious Left Foot in needing a back up plan to my back up plan (and let’s not stop there)
July 29th, 2010 § 13 Comments
Hello friends & people I don’t know too well yet isn’t it possible that might change one day: are you also up–late into the evening, early into the morning–like me and like the cicadas? The longer I am away from this blog, the harder it is to write a post because instead of having to tell you how it felt to live the past two days, (and not knowing how, I feel apologetic toward the last two days,) I have to try and figure out how to regard and encapsulate and exhume and illuminate how it felt to live the past week and a half (and not knowing how, I feel apologetic toward the last week and a half, which is a little bit too much sorry-feeling to feel for writing a blog post, is it not?)
Everything is ending and almost nothing is beginning yet, but that’s because I like to get sad about nothing and I often feel too tense to get excited about everything. I finished teaching at at the Iowa Young Writers Studio last week. It ended with a camp talent show and prom that made my heart hurt in ways that were so extraordinary it would be beneath the very extraordinariness of what makes anything feel extraordinary to say whether my heart hurt in a good or bad way. I know I felt so proud of my students at the end of the two weeks. It was wonderful to watch them grow as fiction writers, and how blessed I felt when every single one of them turned in a second short story that was terrifyingly good and galaxies better than their first.
Speaking of being blessed, a man approached me on the street using the guise of wanting to know if I was ‘Korean, Chinese, or Japanese,’ because ‘I can tell most of the time, well not all of the time, sometimes I’m wrong, but mostly I’m right, except a few times I’ve been wrong, but everyone’s wrong sometimes, at least I can get it about 80% of the time.’ I thought he wanted me to be his geisha or some shit, but it turned out he just wanted to bless me and invite me to his church. I usually don’t say directly, ‘Sorry dude, I’m an atheist,’ but being indirect has caused my life to sour these past few weeks, so I went against impulse and told him to leave me alone. What are you supposed to say to someone who tells you, ‘I’m praying for you?’ If you say, ‘Leave me alone you weird, sad, ineffective person,’ wouldn’t that make the person pray for you even more vigorously? But it also feels awful to leave a conversation like that with your tail between your non-believing mosquito bitten legs.
My life is sort of a void now that camp is over and the brilliant, brilliant Julia has gone back home to Minneapolis. I’d gladly suffer through twenty plus mosquito bites to sit with her on the curb of parking lot late into the night while half ignoring, half amused smiling at the creepy dudes who vulture-circle around her because she’s that beautiful and they’re that creepy, and also guess what? I have eighteen mosquito bites on my leg right now. Today, I took a wrong turn on my way to the thrift store and I ended up in a part of town that had numbers for street names, and an elementary school named after a President with a ruined reputation, and rows and rows of disturbingly similar mansion type houses and strange lawns that were so green and long yards of white picket fences that I jokingly and also seriously dreamed about as a teenager that I got the shivers just driving past it all. At the end of the road was this road which led to a barn which led to a house which led to more barns which led to more roads which led to places I don’t know about.
These Jeffrey Campbell peeptoes are for sale at Tender Gluttons (my shop my closet blog.)
These mosquito bites are also for sale.
This emblem is marks The Tree of Life, which is just another way of saying, Yo life, keep sproutin.
If you’re wondering what kind of sibylline, magical creature designed a pair of ruffled bloomers with heart pockets, well, duh, it’s Mandate of Heaven obviously.
The vintage ruffle top I got at a flea market in Brooklyn, and the sandals are from Etsy.
Returning to the subject of brilliance and Julia, I had a brilliant time with Julia and Lucy (both counselors at the camp) this past weekend, so brilliant, in fact, I couldn’t stop wishing out loud for the night to never end, and that was how every night ended. Julia has made me feel braver about telling people about this blog. For example, today I told Leslie about my blog (hi Leslie, if you are reading this!) and I only didn’t say anything earlier because Leslie has a beautiful elliptical mind that makes me want to have the ability to connect all the most important and mysterious things in this world to each other the way she does, and it makes me want to know what mental exercises I can do to make my brain as dazzling as hers. Also, speaking of dazzling things, look at how dazzling Julia looks in this yellow 60′s dress, formerly mine, now hers hers hers and truly hers because it only glows when it’s on her.
I was going to put this dress up on my Shop My Closet blog but I’m glad that it’s going to Julia instead. I’ve put up a few new things over at my little closet shop, including some dresses,a bow belt that I wore in with the same yellow dress Julia’s wearing, and a pair of Jeffrey Campbell peeptoes that I’m wearing in the first photo up top. I feel like this post is all about completing some kind of circle because the last time I showed off my double-jointed arms was when I was wearing this yellow dress that is now Julia’s, and now, once again, I’m showing you my mosquito bites and my weird arms and this whole post feels like a letter written by someone who never learned to be clever and that is as comforting as white picket fences were to the high school me who brazenly and secretly wanted almost everything that other people told me I should want.
Love, Jenny
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
REPLIES to 344. Sir Satanic Magic Bamboo Jerks Off:
Thank you everyone for sharing your blog with me! I’ve been reading and visiting and happily enjoying your words + pictures. I’ve also updated our blogroll to the best of my shabby ability. Is your blog missing? Do I visit your blog every day and tell you how much I worship your very being, and did I still stupidly forget to include your blog on our blogroll? If so, please tell me so!
346. Up High
July 27th, 2010 § 5 Comments
“Hey,” Chris said, “do you want to go for a walk?”
I wanted to go to a coffee shop, but Chris convinced me to walk up Bernal Heights with him. The “Heights” in Bernal Heights: not a misnomer. I ended up nearly scared to death and practically refused to go any farther on our way back down. However, we did manage to get some nice pictures. (Thanks, Chris.)
The purple coat is new and from Al’s Attire. They’re a North Beach store that specializes in custom-tailored finery, but I bought this coat off-the-rack. They shortened the belt for me, but that was all it took for me to be able to wear it out of the store. The fabric is interestingly stiff (and 60s vintage — the buttons are vintage as well); I’ve never owned a nice trench coat before, but I’m quite pleased with this one, and it’s been serving me well for the foggy San Francisco summer.
We’re packing up our room right now, and Chris and I will be welcoming Francesca back to California later tonight. Enjoy your Tuesdays, everyone!
xo, mw
345. Show Up & Be Open
July 22nd, 2010 § 4 Comments
Dress: 1385, shoes: Bass, balletic posture: attempting to look like my legs are longer than they are
I bought this dress from 1385 (currently On Vacation while Francesca’s back east), which is my new go-to for vintage now that I’m no longer living in Ann Arbor and am therefore far away from The Get Up — this dress is a heavy crochet, and feels summery in its whiteness while being a little bit warm, which is good for the foggy San Francisco summer. In this photo I’m standing on the path to the seashore in Half Moon Bay. I wish I were still there, but it’s not so bad to be warming my feet by a space heater in our apartment. (Which I’ve been doing for hours today, and my back is starting to hurt!)
I think that my way of settling into the day, now that my internship is over, involves coffee and talking to Anna and eating a good breakfast (which is usually, now, a baby avocado and cottage cheese with a sprinkling of salt). Also, washing my face in a regimented way, which I had not been doing for the last few months. That, plus stress, equaled some of the worst skin I’ve had since I lived in a Stanford self-op with Melissa above the kitchen, when I was smothered in greasy air all of the time and erupted in splotches that came and went like the tide. Someone asked us in an earlier post what our skincare routines were. I was going to say, “I rub my face with a damp washcloth that probably needs to be laundered,” but now I am going to say, “I use Kiehls cleanser, toner, and moisturizer, and I use a heavy cream at night.” I’ll let you know how that goes.
In bloggy news, I met a slew of kind, stylish people at a ModCloth party on Monday, including the lovely Erin (Calivintage). She wrote about the event here, and even posted a video of the flipbook she made at the party (Chris and I made one as well) — adorbs!
xo, mw
344. Sir Satanic Magic Bamboo Jerks Off
July 20th, 2010 § 23 Comments
In “Signs & Symbols,” Nabokov proposes that going batshit insane is one of the most egotistical, self-absorbed things one can do. (Surely, some anonymous commenter is going to tell me, ‘No, running a fashion blog is!’) I’m not going to argue with the dude who collected butterflies and taught me that the best response to any sort of challenge (physical, emotional, mental, psychological, metaphorical, illusory or real) is: I will never return! I will never surrender! (See here for more.)
Metaphorically speaking, I’ve not collected any butterflies to fortify and vivify my life, but I have found forty to fifty literal pellets of mice shit, which very much degrade my life. I really like the part in George Saunder’s “Sea Oak,” when Mr. Frendt, the boss of a sad male strip joint, fires an employee who is no longer young and vital, and says in his speech to all his employees, “No one is an island in terms of being thought cute forever, and so today we must say good-bye to our friend Lloyd.”
I went to Beef Days in Solon and played four games of Bingo (the proceeds went to benefit the Optimist Club of Iowa City.) I like to think of the members of the Optimist Club as investing in really ill-conceived projects, like dropping a wad of cash to build a community garden on land so arid that nothing at all grows and still declaring the endeavor a smashing success a year later.
Listening to Acid Mothers Temple on my computer always makes me wish I could just see them at Bottom of the Hill in San Francisco again, preferably on tour with the ladies from Afrirampo, who seem to bring a big forked branch with them to every show that they pass around like a communion wafer, only holier and wilder.
By the way, two of my co-workers at this freaking A++ awesome camp have A++++++ awesome blogs. Julia has a fashion blog so good that I feel stupid for not knowing about sooner, and Becca has a sassy blog where she weaves pop culture, poetry, and Iowan life into one big bouillabaisse of rad. Also, my students are A+++++++++ times A++++++++ rad, and hi students if for some unforgivable reason you’ve found my internet space!
As for me, today I cried at the end of three short stories and wished for the strength to punch holes in the heads of management staff at Lehman Brothers. Like Meggy, I’m looking for a job, but I’m only looking for a temporary job in New York in August and September. I’ve been in this situation many times before, and I once answered a Craigslist ad where this guy claiming to be super rich wanted to pay someone $50 an hour to be ‘my own personal cheerleader, my reason to get up in the morning.’ My friends advised me to not be that someone.
Sorry by the way for not having a chance to visit your blogs and say hi because I often want to do that and then I have no time or feel like I don’t have anything else to say besides, Hi! You are the greatest and so is your blog! I think it’s also time FFW updated our blogroll because there are so many wonderful blogs that I keep noticing are missing from our blogroll and then a minute later, I’ve somehow become fixated on a long, flat bug with a thousand legs crawling up the leg of my sofa, and even right now, I’m supposed to be focusing and finishing the thought I started at the beginning of this sentence, but I’ve already lost my will for continuity and will instead show you what I wore to class yesterday, and if you don’t mind, I also need to prove to the world my insane allergy to mosquitoes.
I love any dress with Stevie Nicks + cut-out sleeves, and it’s from Modcloth, and the shoes are 80s shoes and the belt is vintage and the earrings are from Istanbul.
Will you look at that mosquito bite? (Sorry for the excessive inner thigh close-up.) The day after I was bitten, my leg was so swollen, I actually couldn’t lift it high up enough to jump over this fence to get to a bunch of little rabbits who were all chasing each other and stopped for a second to give me this look that was definitely a look of “Come here. We can be friends.”
If you have a blog of your own, please let me know in the comments. I’d love to learn about your world.
Love,
Jenny
343. Picture Post: Half Moon Bay, CA
July 18th, 2010 § 8 Comments
For our one-year wedding anniversary (and our nine-year dating anniversary is coming up, too), Chris and I decided to take a weekend excursion to Half Moon Bay. I promised myself that I wouldn’t blog while I was on vacation, but here’s a compromise: I’m posting some photographs from the trip, and I’ll be back on Tuesday with more pictures and anecdotes. Have a wonderful rest of the weekend!
xo, mw














