For some reason, I couldn’t really stand to watch The Substance this past weekend. Perhaps it was due to the brilliantly crafted execution of body horror that turned me off, as it usually does. Or maybe it reminded me of something I should be thinking about more often than I do. Through the scope of observing yet another Hollywood tale of the commodification and sexualization of women in media, I turned to look inwards as a “good viewer” does. Now, the film’s poignant tale of how age haunts the women it grows upon in the spotlight did not fly directly over my head. Instead, I felt more disturbed and entranced by an element which lay beneath this; that of the inner observation. Which in The Substance, was depicted externally. Two women present, both encapsulated under one mind. One terribly judgemental mind.
As I was squinting at Margaret Qualley’s birth scene, watching her step outside into the frigid, sterile bathroom with one eye nearly shut, I noticed her observation of Demi Moore on the ground, lifeless. The way something in the depiction of one woman looking down on what she can only guess to be herself, felt close to something I swore I had experienced myself. Although my sensitive eyes could only let me handle so much, it is a given to me that the most gruesome and honest sentiments of personal extractions and emotional gripes should be handled by the brutal depiction of gore.
Unsettled by a screen, my thoughts shifted to issues in reality on the fragmentation of identity I had considered once in the past. The physical tearing of bodies depicted in the scene reflected a splitting of the mind which tears us away from our existing continuous stream of personhood and self. Now, the splitting of the self can be constituted in regards to splitting one’s consciousness across different platforms. Examples of futuristic “brain draining” into computers come to mind, in which your consciousness becomes indefinitely preserved in an external body, unlike yours. Though, it cannot be said that the computer will observe you, nor take any interest in doing so. However, what The Substance reminded me was that women will always be far more interested in observing themselves than anyone or anything else truly will.
When I learned about splitting last year, I found it incomprehensible how a preserved digital consciousness could equate to a viable human being—or one worthy of functioning within society, at least. Though it lacks our biological components and has no way of forming unique and identical thoughts true to the identity of its source data, it does not self-reflect either. I’ve assumed for the longest time that self-reflection was a process that involved standing in front of a mirror and observing my physical flaws—the way my mouth moved as I crossed from a frown into a smile, the size of my arms, and the symmetry of my eyebrows. I would wait until those physical qualities offered me some perspective on the person I was internally.
I write in journals and diaries; perhaps that constitutes self-reflection as well. But when I step back and read the words over, they distort themselves with the intention to provide meaning for someone else. And when I reflect, I imagine that the consciousness that wrote those things down was not mine at all.
Sometimes I assume I am writing my tragedies down for Vogue. Sometimes I report on the world for The New York Times. Sometimes I think I’m writing a script for my ex-boyfriend to stumble upon and realize just how down-to-earth I really am. And that is when I learned that the biggest and most persistent form of self-reflection that was taking place in my life was the sort of voyeurism I inflict upon myself.
When I am naked in my room, I arch my back for a man who isn’t there. I pick out my clothes for strangers to notice me on the street. I write for the validation of a scout who will never know my name, let alone realize I even exist.
All of these people, non-existent and fictitious, are simply reduced judgments I pass down to myself. The longer I have lived with them, the more I see that they are not unique. My personal voyeuristic moments are embedded in so many other women who watch themselves as well. And perhaps we are women with our heads on our shoulders. We do our makeup in the morning tailored to our own personal interests—or that is what we tell ourselves so that it is true. But behind me in the mirror is a man I met the other day, and I think he needs to like it too. There are always secret cameras in our bedrooms watching us in our matching sets and morning rots. They can’t smell our strong cups of tea, but they make sure we sip on it without a spill.
I have made peace with the fact I am not hallucinating and do not vividly picture any of these people. Rather, I know that they are me. Still, I ponder why the curse of the male gaze follows me into the trenches of loneliness, in spaces full of women. It’s the part of myself I don’t like to admit is even me—the one raised by the society that made it innate to perceive womanhood as a performance, not the one raised by a single mother, surrounded by influences of independence and strength. I know that when I step outside, I am aligned with the latter. And it is this fear of the voyeur I was assigned to at birth that haunts my steps into struts.
At times, self-reflection can be a pain. And sure, it’s nice when the media reminds you that you are not alone. But something as raw as those first few scenes of The Substance was enough for me (along with the fact that I had to close my eyes every time there was a needle involved, but that’s my business). Knowing that another woman out there had an experience so ubiquitous that it was essential to tell it in such a gore-filled fashion calls me back to the notion that personal female voyeurism is as horrifying as it is made out to be. It is unnatural and unkind. It does, in fact, feel like I am tearing my source body apart to pick at its every morsel—not because I want to, and not because I am insecure as a result of my own mental pitfalls, but because I am expected to. As if I am a block of clay, being thrown and whacked on a spinning wheel, chipping pieces off my sides until someone else dictates that I have been perfected.
One way or another, I assume it comes down to being noticed. From that first exposure to kindness and allure we find in another individual, we expect them to watch us in a shimmering halo, an incandescent glow. Everything we do must equate to their ideal of perfection. But this requires our imaginations to suppose what that perfection even looks like, and then it ends up being our own. And it follows us, presumably forever. There is no killing ‘the other’ if we continue to pursue a world that has no interest in even acknowledging it exists, and women like me who fear digging deeper into that part of themselves. There is true disgust in sitting to think about the fact that the man in the mirror has to be a man. And that no matter how hard I try to divest from the opinion and scrutiny of their historical reign on societies throughout time—by engaging in authenticity, writing my own narratives, and allowing myself to become categorized by my anger, wit, and tenacity—there is disgust in this one pitfall I feel as if I cannot control. As she is I, but I am not her.
And perhaps one day I’ll just be able to mold into one with it and make that metaphorical peace modern feminism wants me to. Still, the consciousness of a woman is split from the moment she understands what it is to be a voyeur of her very own film.
felt.