Up close and personal: The Vulva as a Feminist Statement
If you dig deep enough into any ideology that has justified the oppression and abuse of women throughout history, you will find the Eve complex; a feminist concept which refers to the negative portrayal of Eve in the biblical story of Genesis. There are myriad versions of the same proto woman creation myth, all equally harmful. Eve, deemed responsible for the downfall of all mankind and the subsequent subjugation of women, is portrayed as an irreverent, heretical and deceitful temptress.
"The Rebuke of Adam and Eve" by Domenichino, 1626.
In the same bible verse, she is also portrayed as a devoutly religious woman, committed mother and wife (Randall. H, 2016). This polarised and contradictory rhetoric is problematic because it normalizes and promotes “accepted” and “rejected” versions of femininity, and what it means to be a “good” or “bad” woman (Arbel. V, 2012). And this extends to all aspects of woman, not just the vulva. Women often experience detrimental and conflicting messages about their bodies as a total. Like many before me, I bore a slew of criticism for my commitment to breastfeeding regardless of my context. Sadly it is roundly evidenced that this experience of criticism is key in explaining why more women don't breastfeed for long, if at all (Severinsen. C, Neely. E and Hutson. R, 2024). In conflict, society condones advertising placement of huge images of breasts in public space.
Despite the phallus remaining an enthusiastic staple in art throughout history, the vulva still resides in a shadow of shame; the subject of censorship and taboo. Why do we still tolerate such archaic, contradictory and harmful attitudes?
"David" by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simonielo, 1501 - 1504.
Considering this discrepancy, I feel confident in asserting the value of positioning the vulva as a feminist art statement. How can it not be, when including it offers such a clear lens for the misogyny inherent in our cultures and psyche, past and present.
When Australian artist Casey Jenkins formulated her performance piece, 'Casting off My Womb', she intended it to be a 'meditative, slow and rhythmic' reflection of societal pressures. She spent 28 days knitting from a ball of wool lodged in her vagina, representing a full menstrual cycle.
I believe that the roots of this misogynistic discrimination lay partially in the soil of Darwinism, which propagates the attitude that women are intellectually and physically inferior to men.
Darwin proposed males became "more evolved" than females due to their exposure to far greater selective pressures; for example, war. Darwinism argued that, because natural selection operated more actively on males than on females, male superiority existed in virtually all intellectual and skill areas. This is of course nonsense, and clear evidence that misogynistic armchair logic was often more important in Darwinism than empirical evidence (Bergman. G, 2002). He is famous for writing about his "Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day". What a shame that he dedicated much of his life to reinforcing harmful rhetoric, subjecting generations of women, and men, to the same kind of disappointment and harm (Krulwich. R, 2012).This level of ignorance and misogyny extends to most facets of culture, including medical science. Many medical dictionaries and texts still refer to the clitoris as “pea-sized.”, when it is in fact roughly 3.5 inches long and 2 inches wide (Russo. N, 2017). Historical accounts of the clitoris are rife with nescience and fear mongering. A prominent 16th century scholar, Vesalius, proposed that the clitoris only presented in the bodies of unhealthy women. The infamous 14th century treatise on the hunting and prosecution of witches, The Malleus Maleficarum, referenced the clitoris as the “devil’s teat” (Broedel. H, 2003). If a woman was found in possession of one, it was deemed irrefutable evidence that she was a witch which was grounds for execution. And in the 1800s, women who were diagnosed as suffering from “hysteria” were often subjected to clitoridectomies (Russo. N, 2017).
"Arch of Hysteria", Louise Bourgeois, 1993.
Female genital mutilation (FGM) is still widely practised in many areas of the world, most often on girls under 15. This is done for no medical reason and causes devastating life long complications (HM Government, 2016).
One of the research avenues I walked down for this essay was exploring the myriad slang terms for the clitoris; The Devil's Doorbell and The Hooded Lady are some of my favourites (Cruz. G, date unknown). Whatever you choose to call it, celebrating and exploring the clitoris is a political act of defiance against the discourse that female genitalia is disgusting; deadly even, if we pay attention to the millennia old vagina dentata myths, a folk tale tradition which claims the vagina can contain teeth (Leach. M, 1972). The myth is of course a symbolic expression of primal male anxieties about power dynamics in all forms of relationship, sexual and not. Afterall, in patriarchal societies male dominance is the norm, so it is no surprise that fear of losing control or being dominated is a base insecurity for men. The myth also points to the fear that women can emasculate men psychologically through intimacy and sex. More literally, it references castration anxiety, reflecting deep-seated fears in men of losing their virility. Additionally, the myth might serve as a cautionary tale about the dangers of immoral sexual behaviour. Just as the ceremony of the wake came to be as a way of preventing necrophilia, so too does the vagina dentata myth protect against rape.
Sometimes however, vulva art really does have bite, like Brazilian artist Juliana Notari's vivid 'Diva', a 33m long sculpture made of concrete and resin, situated on the hillside of an old sugar mill. Notari said it depicted both a vagina and a wound, questioning the relationship between nature and culture in a phallocentric and anthropocentric society. It is as much a commentary on the centuries of harm visited on women's bodies as it is a reference for colonial trauma and the pillaging of Mother Earth's resources.
A more recent artwork that also celebrates the vulva, Merret Oppenheim’s sculpture 'Object', has become a symbol for feminist surrealist art. Now housed in the MOMA, this strange and humorous piece was born from a conversation between Oppenheim and Picasso as they considered a fur bracelet that she had made and was wearing, whilst sitting outside a Parisian cafe in 1935. Picasso apparently remarked, “You can cover anything with fur these days, can’t you?” to which Oppenheim responded, “Yes, even this cup and saucer.” (Gozo. C, Biggs. R.K, Umland. A, and Hernandez, A, 2024). And so, 'Object' was born.
"Object", Meret Oppenheim, 1936.
The piece juxtaposes its intrinsically discordant object and medium in a classically surrealist way. It also offers an invitation that is as provocative as it is amusing; please take a sip from Oppenheim's furry cup.More recently still, American feminist icon and artist Judy Chicago created "The Dinner Party", in collaboration with a number of other female artists; none of whom are acknowledged for the work in the same way that Chicago is. This is hugely ironic as the piece is an homage to 1,038 unsung feminine characters throughout history; both mythical and historical (Chicago. J, 2007).The installation comprises 39 place settings, each of which honour a particular woman, all laid out dramatically along 3 sides of a triangular table. Most of these settings feature an elaborate vulva plate, as well as other objects like napkins and table mats. The floor of the installation is inscribed with 99 other names of real and imagined heroines. Every single inclusion in the installation has been adorned to the point of transformation; shifting the domestic and mundane to the magical and holy.
Why is this piece so powerful? Let's look at the semiotics of Chicago's choice to use a triangular table in this installation as a starting point. The triangle is said to be the most stable shape, structurally. This is because it is excellent at bearing weight, transferring any force applied equally throughout its form via compression and tension. This can be abstracted easily to the often undervalued yet essential roles that women hold in society. Pythagoras calls three the perfect number, expressive of “beginning, middle, and end," (Brewer. E.C, 1898). The number 3 has held this particular favourite place in the human psyche throughout time. It symbolises the basic family structure of Mother, Father and Child. Our time on this planet is split into 3 broad epochs; birth, life, death. There are countless references to triad in the religious texts, for example The Father, The Son and the Holy Spirit of Christianity. The human mind is understood to include the 3 aspects of Ego, Id and Superego. And on it goes, the significance of 3. By including a 3 sided table, Chicago is intentionally communicating this richness and sacredness, all in one deft statement. And this amplifies the power of the installation to an almost religious experience. The last supper, embellished liberally by the vulva.
I find it impossible to look at Georgia O'Keeffe's paintings, with their fleshy delicate folds, and not relate it to a vulva form as much as a flower form. Indeed, it is broadly agreed that her paintings evoke the female genitalia, despite the fact that O'Keeffe rallied loudly and consistently against the implication that her work had a sexual tone.
"Grey Lines with Black, Blue and Yellow", Georgia O'Keefe, 1923.
It is food for feminist thought that a female artist repeatedly told the world what her art was communicating, and was ignored. Is this indicative of the misogyny that runs through the art world, and the world at large? Or does it speak of our primal connection with the vulva and its creatrix power. After reading her own statements about her work, it is clear that she was simply encouraging people to literally stop and smell the flowers.
“I made you take time to look at what I saw,” she said. “And when you took time to really notice my flower, you hung all your own associations with flowers on my flower, and you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see of the flower – and I don’t.” (O'Keefe. G, 1999).
Whatever her intention, it was arguably naïve of her to paint such gigantic images of flowers, a subject that has long been twinned with eroticism, in a way that is reminiscent of the female form, and then baulk at her audience's assumption that she was being sexually provocative. Especially in a society as misogynistic as ours. (Farago. J, 2016). I have mixed opinions about using flowers as a symbol of the divine feminine sex. It is blatantly contradictory for patriarchy to describe the vulva as a perfumed, delicate, wonderful bloom; because this is not how most women's, or girls, bodies are treated. Not in the bedroom and not in the everyday. It is predictably patronising and equally ridiculous that the same mindset would attach fragility to such a powerful aspect of female anatomy. With generosity, we could view the latter as a clumsy grab at romanticism. A grab that sits in stark contrast with keen memories of the pain and fear endured during childbirth, or rape, harboured by the majority of vulva owners.
While writing this piece, I have been struck by the duality of response that the vulva evokes. And this is a part of its power as a motif in art. It is a symbolic ally for the feminist artist; and one that I plan to employ often and well.
