Challenging the Notion of "The Idea of You" as Mere Fan Fiction: A Critique on the Devaluation of Women’s Artistry
Back in the vibrant spring of 2014, when I embarked on the journey of penning what would eventually blossom into "The Idea Of You," my intention wasn’t to stir revolutionary or contentious waves. Rather, I aimed to craft a narrative orbiting around Solène Marchand, a woman teetering on the edge of 40, as she navigates a journey of self-discovery and reinvention through an unforeseen romance with a notably younger man, who also happens to be a globally renowned celebrity. Entrenched within that age bracket myself, at a juncture where one might anticipate a zenith in their professional acting career, I found myself grappling with the sudden dearth of opportunities. Roles grew more conventional, opportunities more sporadic. It was a harsh lesson in the entertainment industry dynamics; post-40, women seemingly lose their allure, relegated to the sidelines under the presumption of waning desirability. I was determined to defy these entrenched norms, in my own modest capacity.
Following the novel’s debut in 2017, I found myself confronted with another unforeseen challenge. Some readers, instead of delving into the intricate layers of ageism, sexism, societal double standards, motherhood, female camaraderie, autonomy, and the shadows lurking behind stardom, chose to skim the surface, branding it as mere "fluff." Their focus narrowed on the love affair and its sensual aspects, blinding them to the broader thematic tapestry woven throughout the narrative. They labeled it a romance, a classification it did not neatly adhere to, as the genre possesses distinct conventions which my narrative intentionally deviated from. Yet, it was boxed and labeled as such.
Was it due to its centering on a woman’s romantic journey? Was it the portrayal of Solène and Hayes Campbell, two consenting adults reveling in their robust sensuality? Or perhaps it was the packaging and marketing strategies employed by the publisher? The answers elude me. However, what became glaringly evident were the messages flooding in from women, prefaced by self-effacing and downplaying disclaimers like, "This isn’t my usual genre, but…" or "I wasn’t expecting to enjoy this, yet…" Subsequently, they delved into discussions mirroring the very themes I endeavored to illuminate through my writing. It was apparent that preconceived notions had clouded their perceptions. They failed to fathom that a narrative exploring a woman’s awakening amidst midlife might harbor profound depths beneath its seemingly tantalizing surface. The notion of complexity intertwined with allure eluded them.
As an aficionado of literary craftsmanship, I hold a deep appreciation for narratives populated by characters divergent from myself, transporting me to realms uncharted and philosophies unexplored, all encapsulated within the embrace of elegant prose. I yearn for narratives that resonate on multiple strata, resonating with profundity. Simultaneously, I cherish tales that entertain, offering respite and brief escapades from the mundane. Striving to straddle both realms has always been my endeavor.
One particular scene from "The Idea Of You" remains etched in my memory: Hayes, a luminary within the chart-topping British boy band, August Moon, disparaging his own craft as mere superficiality, while Solène, an urbane art connoisseur, implores him not to trivialize the joy it brings to its audience.
"It's art. And it brings joy," she asserts. "And that’s invaluable. We grapple with this cultural malaise, demeaning art that resonates with women—be it films, literature, or music—deeming it unworthy of reverence. We assume it lacks depth, especially if it lacks brooding darkness and anguish. Furthermore, a significant portion of such art is crafted by women, leading to their devaluation. We package it in pastel hues, reluctant to dignify it as art."
This sentiment reverberates within me now more than ever, echoing through the corridors of time. It resurfaced when "Barbie" emerged as the cinematic sensation of 2023, a testament to its directorial prowess, yet its female directors, Greta Gerwig and Margot Robbie, were conspicuously absent from the Oscars nominee list for Best Director and Best Actress. It echoed when Taylor Swift, for the better part of a decade, faced scrutiny and dismissal, her artistry deemed juvenile and frivolous. Yet, her recent induction into Forbes' billionaire club, solely on the strength of her musical compositions and performances, shatters those perceptions. Suddenly, the trivial isn’t so trivial anymore.
Nowhere is Solène’s narrative of this cultural bias more acutely felt than in the responses elicited by her story. Labeling it as "fluff" or "fanfiction"—particularly by those who haven’t delved into its depths—is not only reductionist but dismissive. And this isn’t a plight afflicting male authors. It’s egregious enough that novels featuring female protagonists are relegated to the genre of "women’s fiction," whereas their male-centric counterparts are simply "fiction," despite female readers constituting a disproportionate share of the fiction market. But presuming that a narrative featuring a fictional celebrity romance must be a derivative of real-life celebrity gossip—Harry Styles, in this instance—is not just unimaginative but sexist in its implications.
While there undoubtedly exist prodigious talents within the realm of fanfiction, it’s a realm I haven’t traversed. Hayes Campbell, akin to Solène Marchand and the myriad of characters inhabiting this narrative, draws inspiration from the tapestry of human encounters and the plethora of artistic influences that have shaped my perception. Through the alchemy of imagination, they come to life. It’s a process echoed by countless writers, irrespective of gender, in the genesis of their characters and narratives.
My experience serves as but one facet of a systemic malaise festering within the literary landscape, where works authored by women are subjected to inequitable scrutiny vis-à-vis their male counterparts. As author and scholar Kate Zambreno succinctly articulated in a recent New York Times interview, "First-person narratives penned by men are heralded as profound, commanding greater financial remuneration and critical acclaim. They transcend the confines of autofiction or memoir, hailed as literary endeavors encompassing psychogeography, philosophy, and art criticism. Even when women traverse identical terrain, they are often relegated to the realm of personal experience or, worse yet, dismissed as mere mommy memoirs, should they have children."
What is it about artistry birthed by women and tailored for women that engenders such diminishment—that leads us to question its complexity and significance? We don’t package male-authored tomes in pink hues, deeming them ideal beach reads. We don’t scoff at consumers of male-centric fiction as frivolous. We don’t reduce their narratives to mere fanfiction, latching onto celebrity names for clickbait allure. In essence, we afford them and their creations the dignity they deserve.
.png)
Post a Comment