@peytonc0l3 /
@statemgmt
Wearing
@jwolfschmidt
❤️🔥
FEVER editorial published in
@veinmagazine
The body. Restrained, colonized, brought into line. The police force is there, inside oneself, in the most intimate folds of being. Telling us what to say, what to do, and above all how to appear. Be gentle, pretty, loving, caring. Be attractive, but not too much. And act as if it were natural, as if it came effortlessly, as if we were made that way. Born that way. Hide the blows, the abuse, the trauma, hide the scars. Especially the deepest ones, those carried in the soul. Look grateful, never forget to say thank you. Display the body, from photogenic angles and in carefully chosen poses, make it erotic, make it sell.
Do not show the bruises or the hematomas. Nor the clenched fists and jaws. Do not show the body’s shadow, its blind spot, where it sweats, where it seeps, where the organism admits it is tired, bitter. Lurking in the shadows, where this hidden power can be sensed—the one that drools and screams, the one that rises up, the one that strikes back, the one that takes revenge, the one that could swallow the world. Kali, tongue out, knife in hand, thirsty for blood.
But if one dared to be what lies in the unthought of the lens, that woman cut out in the editing room, with dark skin, poorly kept hair and wide-open eyes, then one would risk becoming that other body. The body of the madwoman, the witch, the hysteric. The rejected body, the one that is locked away, disciplined. The body placed in camps, the one experimented upon. Sterilized, branded, burned. So we make ourselves discreet, swallow our tears, put on the mask. We force ourselves to believe it is natural, that it comes to us effortlessly, that we are not conditioned by centuries of domination, colonialism, genocide. We step into the glare of the spotlights, strike a pose, and smile for the camera.
