i’ve written about this before. AT LENGTH. so i’mma keep it short here. try to anyway.
but i was doing my annual pre-birthday perusal of kennedy things on etsy…
nothing new to see, ya’ll. the gang’s all here.
the wine glasses…
the “feminist” art (feminists have no eyes??)…
the frightful art…
that damn “inspirational” quote (#JACKIEWASMORETHANDRESSES)…
the gratuitous exploitation of jackie’s image to sell clothing that looks nothing like anything jackie wore…
even more frightening art…
plus at least one zillion dress patterns…
though, truth be told, this looks more like phyllis lindstrom than jackie o.
there are also, as ever, The Dolls. which are what brings us together today.
jackie and the fashionz…
jackie in the casket…
i worry that in setting the stage so briskly/insouciantly i’ve simultaneously numbed you and oversold what is yet to come.
i worry that the pathos will not be as pathétique because you have been bombarded by this barrage of pathotic (yes, it’s a word i’m making happen) stuff.
i think maybe i’m giving you too much credit.
for whom could fail to be moved by this?
and you know what, i have only just this very moment realized that these people are our old friends. well, this jackie is anyway.
except for it’s jackie beneath camelot, jackie beyond the faceplant, jackie after clothes. and with more eye makeup…? so maybe not the same jackie but a sister jackie?
plus, of course, JFK.
with their wooden limbs, pierced bosoms, cotton bodies, excessive blusher and trompe l’oeil hair.
she looks like the leader, non? and he her servant or younger brother.
it’s something to do with her power brows, his use of cat-eyeliner and total lack of lower calf definition.
he seems to serenely accept his wooden condition whereas it appears she does not. the strain visible in the varicose vein cracks in her wood, the arm risen in alarm to her pierced breast.
this makes me grateful i do not live in a culture where we pierce our chemises to our nipples, just fyi.
it also makes me reluctant to do anything that may one day result in my being a doll.
you thought that was humbling? it gets worse.
ahhhhhhh, MINE EYES.
our president and first lady.
this angle really brings out the trompe l’oeil in their hair. and also reveals that they have both stained their pants. though perhaps this should not be surprising as they’ve been wearing them now for 50+ years and god only knows when they last parted from their clothes.
in this view, it appears as though they have fallen, sullied, from the good graces of heaven and been stripped of their wings, no?
i am grateful they have one another. i am grateful that they are not alone.
(stare at these dolls long enough and you’ll be grateful for everything. profound gratitude seems to be a side effect.)
look as they gaze upon their destiny…
her nails are red, her blush is FIERCE. his left brow appears to be recovering from botox gone wrong.
both of them ready and accepting, if not entirely willing, poised for… electrodes? torture? getting dressed?
the slope of her shoulders in relation to the placement of her breasts is disconcerting.
i’m just going to leave that observation there.
in my previous post on the pathos of jackie dolls, i made some big, broader point about the casualness of celebrity and the everydayness of our consumption of celebrities as products. i’m not going to go for anything that grand here.
we’ve been looking ultra-close here. i’ve talked about nipples and lashes and nails.
i have, here, been feasting on the details of these dolls, acknowledging that they are supposed to look like a particular something and that they do not- for that is a key part of this- while also consuming every angle and detail with pleasure, for the most part indifferent to the discrepancies beyond my initial glee.
i’ve enjoyed them so much that it’s easy to forget what i knew at the outset: they look hilarifyingly NOTHING like the people they were made to represent.
hmm… might there be a metaphor here?
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