Broken Frontier

Oh dear. I swore I’d stay away from the Irene Adler scandal, but I haven’t had this much schadenfreudian fun in ages.

For those of you who haven’t been following nerderati (hat tip to Laura Hudson for inventing this invaluable term) gossip, here’s a brief summary: about a month ago on BleedingCool.com, a comics website run by Rich Johnston, author “Irene Adler” debuted a new column called A Very Modern Muse. The column is devoted to the shadowy craft of the uberfangirl, that anonymous DarkAngel85 who frequents message boards and who may (at this very moment!) be filling your favorite creator’s mind with inspiration half-intellectual and half-mammary. Posting endless pictures of her cleavage and corseted waist, she is like one of those misshapen Bronze Age goddess figurines: she doesn’t need a face; she is a boob with a brain.

The backlash was swift, entertaining, and brutal. The amount of investigative skill poured into discovering Adler’s true identity would put the Washington Post to shame. Why the fury? I think most comics fans would rather talk about books than about fangirl politics. The world of comics is still mostly about comics, and not about the ego-stroking meta of creation—in stark contrast to much of the literary world. (If I have to read one more essay about essay-writing, one more novel about a novelist, I will puke.)

Also, I think people in the post-feminist age are disturbed when a woman deliberately cultivates a misogynistic relationship, so to brag about one seems almost grotesque. But kids, here is the sad truth: artistically speaking, misogyny is a very productive system. How many unnamed, uncelebrated immortal beloveds haunt the pages of history? I wasn’t kidding about the Bronze Age thing: this relationship between (male) celebrated artist and (female) faceless muse has existed for so many hundreds of years that it is built into our cultural DNA.

Some women prefer having influence to having rights. When suffragettes took to the streets in the early part of the 20th century, crying one vote for one woman, a significant minority of ladies were baffled. Why would I want one vote? I already have three: my husband, my brother and my son. Today, fangirl ‘muses’ like Adler are arguing the same thing: why create when you can influence a creator, or even many creators? You get that blissful high of collaborative inspiration without any of the blood, sweat and public ridicule that go into forging your own career. If you don’t mind being disposable—‘muse’ is not something you can put on a CV or bibliography after an artist gets tired of you—it’s a great gig.

The harem will always exist because there will always be women who feel well-served by it. Thankfully, it is no longer the only option available. If you like anonymous musedom, go forth and inspire. You serve a valuable purpose. But the keyword there is serve.

Ladies, if you want anything more than a footnote in history, avoid this path like the plague. People who really believe in your talent will never ask you to take off your clothes. That’s a rule you can swear by. If you want to be an artist, do your own work and sign it with your own name. It’s a wretched struggle, but the payoff is pretty cool—and you’ll never, ever have to crop your photos at the neck.