The Jessica Rabbit and Lola Bunny-fication of Women
It was once said, half in jest, mostly in truth, that the ideal muse for high fashion wasn’t a woman at all. It was a prepubescent boy. Flat chest. Narrow hips. Angular limbs. The heroin-chic aesthetic didn’t whisper femininity, it screamed malnourished adolescence. And why not? The preferred canvas for most haute couture designers, many of them gay men wasn't shaped by female biology, but by their own projections. Women were merely tailored into that fantasy. And so began the great betrayal. Where once stood the glorious curves of Marilyn Monroe, the sensuality of Elizabeth Taylor, the charm of Asha Parekh, Mumtaz, and Sharmila Tagore - now stood a problem. Those women, by today’s standards, would be sent off to the fat farm. Too soft, too full, too… real. The new aesthetic demanded shrinkage. Of flesh. Of identity. Of self. Women contorted themselves into forms they never had and were never meant to have. Breasts were inconvenient. Hips were criminal. Fashion didn’t follow the...
