She stands in a street, clad only in jeans and pink bra. Perhaps you’d know her from the tattoos, but the trademark beehive and thick eyeliner are gone, rendering her bare and practically unrecognizable.
She was certainly recognized though, as the picture was shown all over the world.
It’s an incredibly difficult photo to look at, but if you do, you see there’s bewildered desperation in the eyes, but something in the open, upright stance, as she’s facing and – loaded language in this context, I know – exposing herself to the photographers documenting her downfall, remains defiant. Like on her chart-topping record, Amy Winehouse is still saying no, no, no.
I used to say that Winehouse’s “Rehab” was a actually a metaphor for a woman rebelling against patriarchal control. It was only half a joke. To me that song still rings true as a woman’s determination not to let anyone else – men, social institutions – tell her what’s best for her in a time of crisis. The story is not entirely different from Victorian narratives of women who were deemed “hysterical” or “mad” and locked away to be kept from making trouble.
Now, there seems to be little doubt that Winehouse has serious drug abuse issues. But watching her tribulations unfold in a constant sensationalized manner, practically in real time, is like some sort of fun-house mirror version of the experiences of many twenty-something women. If all the messy details of our personal lives, fashion choices, and mistakes were writ large in the public sphere, we probably wouldn’t come out looking so perfect and in control either.
I hope Winehouse gets better. I want to see her making more music, happy and strong and beautifully dressed and giving a big old finger to the press who have reveled in her tribulations. Because, while I sadly can’t get my hair to do anything close to her look and I certainly don’t face the severity of problems that she does, Amy Winehouse is my sister.
She has a litany of voices – including Keith Richards, of all people – telling her what’s best for her, passing judgment on almost every aspect of her life. Not all of these actions may be badly intentioned, and it would appear that if Winehouse is indeed to conquer her demons, she will certainly need help and perhaps institutionalization.
Nevertheless, there’s something about this chorus of voices telling this young woman what’s she’s doing wrong and how she should lead her life, and the attitude of condescension disguised as genuine concern, that again draws a parallel to ordinary young women struggling to make their way in the world.
You don’t have to be a pop sensation with a drug problem and a mass media following to have your life dissected, your mistakes analyzed, and to have other people offer unsolicited advice and opinions on how you should live and work and everything you’re doing wrong.
If you’re an editorial assistant, a graduate student, or an investment banker, if you’re any kind of young woman starting out in the world, finding your place and voice, your confidence will frequently be shot by a chorus of voices – often, but certainly not exclusively, male – calling you names, telling you what you should do, and undermining and denigrating your skills and abilities. It’s enough to make any girl go a little crazy now and then.
It’s because of this kinship, because I have a sense – not that I know what it feels like – but that I’ve experienced my own, normal gal version of her situation, that I hope Amy can show the world that her tears will dry on their own.