#14 Watch me, I am no candy (eng & fra)

A tale of stage, sex and ancient farce

Happy new year dear readers! Thank you so much for being here. Today more than any day I wish you Joy, Laughters, Intensity and Adventures in everything you undertake. If you like this letter, please forward it to your loved ones and help me spread the rodeo spirit! Love, love.

Before the holidays, I attended a professional event, one of those big rallies where thousands gather to see and be seen, check in one last time on their industry before shutting down, listen to “big leaders” on a stage. The stage precisely was where the show was happening. Several round tables where economics, finance, prospects, innovation were discussed more or less extensively by the many experts who paraded there during the one and a half hour it lasted. Fifteen maybe? Only men. One of the biggest industries in France and only men in position of power, again and still.

Oh pardon me. There were women on stage. The first one was the moderator, a journalist in charge of the crushing responsability to give some rythm to the discussions. She was good, very professionnal, she knew her craft. She was also very pretty, wore a plunging cleavage, blow dried hair, and high heels. A true embellishment on the stage you know, a treat for the eyes! something agreable to look at while those gentlemen discussed the business of the world.

Ten years after everyone else I fell into the Peaky Blinders vortex. Can we talk about what happens to Grace? She starts as a spy in her own right, on a mission, she is duplice, she lies, she tricks and kills people, falls in love on the way ok, she shoots her boss, starts over in the US and then… comes back as a married woman, gets pregnant and turns into a housewife who runs charity works from her mansion. WTF? Is there no other option in the middle? Can’t you be married and out there? Mother and out here? Can’t you be a spy mother? A married gangster? Make money of your own and splash it as you please? Oh, Steven Knight we need to talk.

I was annoyed already when the actual blow came. A woman was finally called on stage to take part in a panel, as a Comex member in a big tech company. It was the last panel, she was the only woman surrounded by yet another five white men in their 50s but still, what a relief.

Then the panel started, the lights turned on again and the farce started.

The woman had dressed in a beautiful red suit but her plateform heels were so high she stumbled on her way to her chair. When she sat, the camera zoomed on her face and projected a giant version of it on the screens all over the room. Was it the light, was it her hand that had trembled that morning? Her whole face was covered in a make up that seemed to be willing to run away. Her skin was covered in dark patches, her lipstick screaming pink made her mouth asymetrical, the black on her eyes had smeared on her lower lid.

The general effect was one of a light nightmare. Something of a farce you know, like one of those grotesque masks from Ancient theater meant to make sure the audience made no mistake about the character’s intentions.

What was going on there was a desperate attempt of sexualization in a settup that should have been calling none. An extreme version of yet another tension women face daily in the workplace, regarding their appearance this time, expected to be desirable, as well as competent and credible. Another tightrope act.

We are expected to look nice. Be an agreable presence, including for the eyes you know, a little treat! A bunch of plum fruits walking around to our environment’s delight. Look at that little cherry passing by. Yeah, yeah she is skilled but look at her legs! Femininty as a candy in the office.

That woman had embraced the codes of sexualization in the workplace except they were chocking her in return. We were looking at a pathetic attempt to fit in, mixing skills and vulgarity in a desperate try to be accepted, not be rejected right away, maybe even be listened to on that stage?

I was struck by the violence of it all, the ridicule of it all. A farce. When did sex invite itself in the workplace? Since forever. That way of regulating women in all their dimensions, tricking them into believing that what will serve them is to play the abiding femininity part.

It was the little square on the floor all over again. “Yeah sure you’re welcome here, do sit at the table! Oh but before you do there is a little footnote: you stay right there. See that little square on the floor? It’s yours. Enjoy, it’s all yours! Have a blast, danse in it if you like but remember - do not trespass. You should behave that way, talk that way, dress that way. Otherwise sorry babe, you’re out. Deal?”.

Well sorry babes, no deal. There is not only one way to be and I shall walk in there dressed as something else than a soft porn version of myself.

Fuck sex where it doesn’t belong.

Happy new year my dear rodeo girls.

Now, on your saddle, and off you go!

Clara

Nous voici en French-speaking zone, enjoy!

Avant les fêtes, j’ai assisté à un événement professionnel, l’un de ces grands rassemblements où des milliers de personnes se réunissent pour voir et être vus,