The Female Gaze: Why Women In Art Matter
The first feminist gesture is to say: “OK, they’re looking at me. But I’m looking at them.” The act of deciding to look, of deciding that the world is not defined by how people see me, but how I see them.
These profound words were said by the queen of the French New Wave of cinema herself, Agnes Varda. A feminist icon, she was one of the pioneers of a flurry of extremely influential French films in the 1960s. She was, as you might’ve guessed, the only woman in that group. And that unique vantage point gave her movies a different perspective and feel from her male peers like Jean-Luc Godard and Francois Truffaut. This new perspective and the aforementioned quote are at the centre of ‘the female gaze’ and what it means. To put it simply, the female gaze is a term referring to the perspective of women in the creation of art, as well as the representation of women in them. The latter point encompasses the portrayal of women having agency. So, all genders can tap into the female gaze. The term was coined as an extension and response to feminist film theorist Laura Mulvey’s idea of ‘the male gaze’. Taking Hitchcock’s Rear Window (1954) as an example, she talks about how women are treated as objects of pleasure. Their purpose is solely to be looked at; without being able to look back. The theme of voyeurism plays a key role in the film, after all. Before we delve into examples of the female gaze in art, we should first understand the importance of the artist’s role in whatever they create.
Perspective is everything in any work of art. Something life-changing can come out as hollow and off-putting if a different person expresses it. When analysing an artwork, the artist’s life story, headspace at the time of its creation, and intentions are usually brought up to help dissect it. It is very understandable, isn’t it? Frida Kahlo’s The Two Fridas springs to mind in this regard. Elements of Frida’s life, like her dual Mexican-European heritage and her separation from her husband Diego Rivera, all coalesce and manifest themselves into the very painting. Kahlo’s paintings often depict her own body and experiences, including her physical pain and emotional turmoil. Through her art, she asserts her own agency and control over her image, challenging the traditional male gaze. There are also many novels, from Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca to Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, that tap into this female gaze.
And speaking of novels, there is the authorial intent fallacy which states that the creator’s intent is irrelevant in understanding their creation. This seems to contradict the female gaze by separating the text from its author. But it is important to note that it is a type of literary criticism that validates the audience’s interpretations rather than shunning the artist. Besides, the female gaze doesn’t just apply to the artist or the characters in their works. It could also refer to us, the audience. The same story viewed through a woman’s lens can reveal different unintended interpretations. And this leads to the importance of women in art. Whenever someone tells me that the gender of an artist doesn't matter and that a great artwork is a great artwork regardless of whether the creator was a man or a woman, I get extremely irritated. Whilst it is true that the artist’s gender alone doesn’t make their creation great, these views miss the point of celebrating women. If a singular demographic dominates the whole landscape, their perspectives become monotonous and fresh takes on the art form and on various other things get stifled. Even gender-neutral subjects like love and loss can be put under a different spotlight, and they will glow differently. Women can also shed light on completely unique ideas from their vantage points. Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman (1975) is a shining example.
This Belgian arthouse film recently gained popularity for topping the BFI’s Sight and Sound Top 250 films of all-time list, pushing a lot of people to watch this relatively unknown film. Little did they know that it would be a film about a single housewife doing chores. While it slowly spirals out into something different, it is just a woman doing chores for the most part. But it highlighted something that I never bothered to think about. It deftly portrayed the boring Sisyphean nature of a housewife’s life, forced to conform to notions of a patriarchal society. Never in a million years could I, or any other man, have told this story because these are situations only a woman can experience. Hence, it is imperative that we encourage not only women but people from diverse backgrounds to tell their stories and offer unique insights.
One of the best examples in music, I’d say, is the indie pop icon Bjork. She is probably the best example of an artist leveraging her culture and life to enhance her art. Her eclectic music and eccentric persona are unapologetically and authentically her. The female gaze (I suppose ‘voice’ is more fitting) is prevalent in her works, especially in her two best albums that are filled with glacial synths and warm strings, Homogenic (1997) and Vespertine (2001). Both of these records are a celebration of romance and sexuality with a distinctly feminine edge, especially Vespertine, with the whole album revolving around these topics. Homogenic’s sound was inspired by her native country, Iceland, with the album sounding like rough volcanoes and the soft moss growing on them. A man, or even any other person, could never have made these. It would just feel different and wrong. The mere existence of records like these is proof that we need more women in various art forms.
Discourse about the female gaze spiked in interest with the release of the absolutely phenomenal Portrait of a Lady on Fire by Celine Sciamma in 2019. This film is a manifesto about the female gaze, in Sciamma’s own words, and is literally and figuratively about gazes, glances, and stares. It tells the story of Marianne, a painter commissioned to draw a wedding portrait of Heloise, a well-to-do upper-class woman who is reluctant to marry. Refusing to pose for the portrait, Marianne is forced to memorise her face by accompanying her on daily walks, and then a passionate romance between them ensues. The film, staying true to its setting, is filled with gorgeous painting-like imagery and deals with themes like the relationship between the artist and the muse, the nature of woman’s art and the marginalisation of their art. Many consider it to be a flipping of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. In Greek myth, Orpheus descends into the underworld to bring back his lover, Eurydice. The Gods would let him do so, but on one condition: Eurydice would follow Orpheus on their way back on the condition that Orpheus should not look back to see if she would still be there. Of course, just before they reach the surface, he gets tempted and looks back, sending her to the depths of Hades.
In the film, Marianne and Heloise read this story and debate why Orpheus looked back. Invoking this myth was a masterstroke by Sciamma as she notes that ‘a male gaze can kill you’, literally in this case. She flips this tale and tells it from the perspective of Eurydice, Heloise in this film’s case, as she asks that what if Eurydice was the one who asked Orpheus to look back? Heloise is the one who offers a differing perspective in their discussion. When Marianne points out her mannerisms after spending time painting her, she reverses the scenario and points out Marianne’s nervous mannerisms when she paints. She points out that although she is the muse, she also stares back at the painter. Much like how Eurydice also gazes at Orpheus when he looks back; it is an equal relationship. The distinction between the artist and their subject, the observer and the observed, gets blurred.
One can’t talk about the female gaze without talking about Cleo From 5 To 7 (1962), directed by none other than Agnes Varda. As you might expect at this point, this film revolves around gazes and is thus, an essential one to discuss. The titular character, Cleo, will get the results of a medical test in two hours that’ll confirm if she has cancer or not. And in her anxiety of waiting, the film discusses themes of existentialism from a feminine viewpoint. Viewpoints play a big role in the film, as Cleo often resorts to mirrors for solace. She finds courage and comfort in her beauty and reassures herself in front of mirrors. Through them, she sees how others perceive her. About halfway through the film, a song that she sings sparks an emotional reaction in her. She realises she is trying to be a different person for the gratification of others and not who she wants to be. She goes out and sees a mirror with Mandarin(?) text on it that obscures her reflection. She says, “I can’t read my own fear”, and moves on. In a way, her own reflection becomes a foreign language to her, beginning to break the confinement of society’s perception of her. Then we see her through the reflection of a cracked mirror. She begins to rediscover herself, and from then on, she looks through the mirrors, i.e. right through how others perceive her. The last mirror we see is that of a small handheld one shattering on the ground. Her transformation from an object to a woman is now complete, and the results of her medical test do not seem to matter anymore.
The 18th-century period pieces and the 1960s artsy French films might not be the best to start with if you’re hearing these for the first time. So I recommend to you, in my opinion, the greatest piece of media released in the past 20 years, Fleabag. A razor-sharp, pitch-black comedy, this show challenges the notion of mainstream feminism through its complex and flawed protagonist, Fleabag, played by the show’s creator, Phoebe Waller-Bridge. This staunchly feminist yet iconoclastic series takes shots at mainstream feminism in the very first episode. Fleabag and her character arc are not supposed to be your usual feminist allegories. She’s not there to teach us a lesson; she just is. In her debaucherous journey, she consistently breaks the fourth wall and talks to us, as friends as she calls us. She heightens this whole concept by literally gazing into you, making you an active participant in the process. We are her friends, as she tells her therapist, which is a bit sad considering she can’t listen to us. Her penchant for breaking the fourth wall gets turned on its head brilliantly in the second season and especially in its finale. I shall not spoil these, for I want you to watch this show as soon as possible.
I’d like to conclude this piece by talking about a speech delivered by David Foster Wallace called This Is Water. The legendary writer talks about the difficulty of empathy and how it is monumentally difficult to put yourself in someone else’s shoes in times of duress. We being the fish that go our whole lives without realising that it is water we’re swimming in. He urges us at the end of his speech to remind ourselves that “This is water, this is water”. Similarly, it is easy for us to enjoy art with themes and characters that we are most familiar with. It is up to us to push ourselves out of our comfort zones and experience the stories told by people completely different from us. At the end of the day, that’s what art is: A multi-faceted mirror that is held against us, by us; and we get to see the fragmented psyches of different aspects of humanity. This is art’s greatest essence, and this is why women in art matter.
