The Worth of an Elephant • • • Hope Jorgensen

a concert in the square

Isabel de Oliveira

Artist Statement: This was my first developed role of 35mm, and for my first go at the medium, I am proud of myself!

The Fairest

Caroline Siebert

Artist Statement: “The Fairest” is an essay I wrote about the toxic, limiting nature of the concept of “prettiness” and how it damages young women and girls.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been infatuated with the concept of “being pretty”. I grew up on a steady diet of Disney princesses and Barbie dolls, women who were universally praised for their beauty. Beauty brought love, and privilege, and admiration. It made you valuable. It was the mark of a good and virtuous woman, one who would persevere through obstacles and live happily ever after with a prince. It was blondeness, and eyes that were literally the color of the ocean, and a fourteen-inch waist with a thirty-six inch bust. It was grace and it was elegance. It was everything except for me.

I was always fascinated by my reflection. At times, it seemed wonderfully beautiful, but the feeling was as elusive as fairy dust. It never lasted for more than a few minutes, at which point I would be left feeling a gnawing emptiness. I stood in the mirror and prayed for my hair to get blonder. I wished for new legs in the fountain at the mall so that I could be a ballerina. As I got older, I transitioned from tutus to makeup, covering my eyelids with layers of eyeliner and shadow and tracing my mouth in bright-red lipstick. I wore high-heeled boots, relishing in the way that my feet clicked against the tile. It made me feel powerful, but it did not make me feel happy. Why would it? I wasn’t doing any of it for me–not really. If I was going to take up space in this life, the least I could do was be pleasant to look at. I could get new glasses every year. I could grow out my hair, cut it off, grow it out again, dye it, cut it all off. I could lose weight, then gain it back, then lose it again. I could get leg surgery to improve my gait, be less crippled. I could shave and wax and manicure and smile. If I could just get the perfect combination, I’d feel better and the tiny screaming voice would go away. I’d be able to walk through life like a supermodel, feeling pretty and being pretty.

I don’t know of a single woman who doesn’t have some type of body image issues. They transcend race, class, sexuality, gender, ability status–none of us are immune. That said, the idea of ‘pretty’ has always been shaped by systemic factors. Whiteness, in particular, has always shaped what we understand to be ‘beautiful”. The archetype of female beauty has for so many years been a white, all-American girl with huge blue eyes, peachesand-cream skin, a slim waist, and long legs–in other words, an ideal that very few of us could ever achieve naturally. Even the woman who manages to meet all of those standards isn’t immune–God forbid she ages, or gains weight, or has a–gasp–baby. There is no way to win the game–no matter how much we push ourselves, we’ll always come up short.

Prettiness is always defined by what’s excluded. You don’t meet a set of criteria so much as you avoid a series of obstacles. A five-year old with stick-straight brown hair in a bowl cut, for instance, might look at Princess Aurora and think to herself, “If only I had that, then I would be pretty.” Girls with large chests enviously compare themselves to girls with small chests, and girls with small chests wish for curves. Young people want to look more mature; old people want to look younger. Add fifteen pounds to the top, but lose fifteen in the middle. You have to wear makeup, of course, but if you’re truly beautiful you can make it look natural. Men prefer tall girls, but if you’re too tall you’re gawky and awkward. Natural made-up beauty, so much effort put into looking effortless. This is the Gordian knot which I grew up having to untangle, just as my mother and my grandmother and my great grandmother and my great-great grandmother did before me.

I read about a study in The Guardian recently about how womens’ BMI correlates with their earning power–the study found that as BMI increases, earning power decreases. Fat people, particularly women, are less likely to have access to quality healthcare and more and just generally more likely to be judged than their thin counterparts. (I recognize that judgment is infinitely preferable to outright discrimination, but it’s still not pleasant to live in a world where you’re constantly made to feel like your body is inferior.) Some people call this “pretty privilege”--I call it “the violent enforcement of Eurocentric beauty standards.” We’re taught from a young age that fatness is bad, that it’s the result of laziness and immorality–so is it any wonder that so many women are obsessed with avoiding it? In fact, how does one avoid it when it permeates everything we do and see? It’s a miracle that any woman has been able to escape the constant drone of judgment and carve out some self-esteem. I wish I could do that, too. There are no easy answers or inspiring endings here. I will probably always struggle, to some extent, to appreciate my body for what it is rather than what I’d like it to be. As I’ve learned more about feminism and disability justice, however, I’ve come to realize that things don’t necessarily need to be this way. If we are able to finally put the expectation of prettiness to rest, perhaps we can create a world where women are made to feel more comfortable in their own skin. Maybe I’ll put on eyeliner not because I feel like I have to, but because I genuinely want to.

It was just a game Emma Southern

Content Warning: Abuse

An innocent game of freeze tag Can take a brutal turn With a simple disregard

You tagged me But are mad when I can’t move When I can’t speak Or react Or do anything Except keep breathing And even that is hard to do

While I’m stuck Shut down You tag me again And again More forceful And unrelenting I can’t protect myself I can’t say “Stop. Just Please Stop.”

I’m not given permission to unfreeze But even if I were I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to move Again

The Worth of an Elephant

Hope Jorgensen

Artist Statement: This piece represents the inhumane ivory trade and the lack of care for an elephant’s life or death, represented by the human standing over the elephant and not intervening.

Medium Statement: colored pencil