C6 PAGE
84 - 85


Although the countless sexist words our culture has generated are ubiquitous – in books, advertisements, music lyrics, films, and TV shows – it is when they are directed at a particular individual as a pointed verbal assault that they are the most hurtful and demeaning. Diane Jacobs, in her series of woven paper undergarments, has devised a highly affecting way to bring these words directly to the site of the intended target – the female body.

While bras and panties are the items of clothing that shield, however minimally, a woman’s erogenous zones from casual observation, they also can be the very articles that spur the misogynist male imagination. These often scanty pieces of clothing represent, in the mind of the rapacious man at least, the last slim barrier to full exposure and hoped-for sexual conquest. The artist’s canny tactic is to incorporate these derogatory words, as printed text, directly into the “fabric” of the paper-crafted object.

In Pinky Bra and Striped Undies, the works illustrated here, we can make out in partial and truncated form numerous slang terms for female breasts – “cupcakes,” “melons” and “torpedoes” – and for the vagina, such extravagancies as “cave of harmony” and “cornucopia.” What were once painful verbal slurs are now layered into a faux bra and panties and, in effect, imprisoned there, robbed of their striking force. Hard and callow words have been appropriated by delicate, woman-made constructions. These words now exist only through the courtesy of a woman’s body. They have become womanly decorations, impotent and harmless.

Pinky Bra and Striped Undies
Diane Jacobs




John R. Hastings zeros in on a secondary erogenous zone that is omnipresent in any advertising where the goal is to arouse even a slight undercurrent of eroticism: the lips. Pouty lips, smiling lips, parted lips, glistening lips, puckered lips, lips in close-up, lips from afar – images of lips populate TV screens, the pages of magazines and newspapers, and hover high above the traffic on billboards. In his book Pursed Lips, Hastings has produced a veritable mini-catalogue of the please-kiss-me mode from the modern lip lexicon. When open, the small accordion-fold book offers up ten brightly colored images spread horizontally, each stylistically different. There’s a “hot lips” sun-face, a classic glamour girl, a lipstick greeting card kiss, a chastising china doll (“Don’t call me doll-face”), an old fashioned femme fatale, even an upright broom with sunglasses and candy lips. The whole crazy ensemble fits neatly into a beaded golden purse that creates its own double entendre on the subject.

Pursed Lips
John R. Hastings



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