substance used to make
plastic pliable) may begin to separate from their "resin" (the plastic base— polyvinylchloride in Barbie's case). Or their
dyes might fade.
In the environmentally conscious nineties, it's hard to remember a time when plastic was considered miraculous. In the fifties,
"Better living through chemistry" was the slogan of the plastic pocket protector set, not an ironic catch phrase coined by
users of hallucinogenic drugs. Science was inextricably tied up with patriotism. The Soviets launched Sputnik in September 1957; we countered four months later with a satellite of our own. Can-do, know-how—these were American things,
as were those big acrylic polymers and giant supermolecules. It had been our manifest destiny to tame a big continent; we
drove big cars; even on the molecular level, we placed our trust in big.
With the introduction of credit cards, "plastic" became a synonym for money. Diner's Club issued the first universal credit
card in 1950, American Express followed in 1958, and by 1968, the best career tip for a youth like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate was simply: "Plastics."
Plastic, Roland Barthes wrote, "is the very idea of its infinite transformation; as its everyday name indicates, it is ubiquity
made visible." It is also democratic, almost promiscuously commonplace. In the past, imitation materials implied pretentiousness;
they were used to simulate luxuries— diamonds, fur, silver—and "belonged to the world of appearances not to that of actual
use." Plastic, by contrast, is a "magical substance which consents to be prosaic"; it is cast, extruded, drawn, or laminated
into billions of household things.
But if Barbie's substance is the very essence of the mid-twentieth century, her form is nearly as old as humanity, and it
is her form that gives her mythic resonance. Barbie is a space-age fertility symbol: a narrow-hipped mother goddess for the
epoch of cesarean sections. She is both relentlessly of her time and timeless. To such overripe totems as the Venus of Willendorf,
the Venus of Lespugue, and the Venus of Dolni, we must add the Venus of Hawthorne, California.
But wait, you say, Barbie is no swelling icon of fecundity: thick of waist, round of shoulder, pendulous of breast and bulging
of buttock. How can you link her with Stone Age, pre-Christian fertility amulets? The connection rests on her feet, or the
relative lack of them.
The Venus of Willendorf is a portable object of veneration. Her legs, like those of other Stone Age "Venuses," taper into
prongs at the ankles. For her to stand up, the prong or prongs must be plunged into the earth, an act that, as she is a representation
of the Great Mother, completes her. Mother Nature, Great Mother, Mother Goddess, Mother Earth—by any name, the female principle
of fecundity is "chthonian," literally "of the earth."
In this context, Barbie's itty-bitty arched feet can be interpreted as vestigial prongs. Their suitability to the wearing
of high heels is a camouflage, diverting the modern eye from their ancient function. No one disputes that Barbie has the trappings
of a contemporary woman, but, either deliberately or coincidentally, they are arrayed on a prehistoric icon. When I raised
the issue with Mattel employees, most responded cryptically with a remark like: "I've heard that said."
Sleek, angular fertility idols are not without precedent. The best-known were produced in the Cyclades, Aegean islands off
the coast of Greece, between 2600 and 1100 B.C. The artist who fashioned the Venus of Willendorf conceived of female anatomy
as a landscape of dimpled knolls; the Cycladic artists, by contrast, translated breasts and bellies into schematized geometric
forms. Like Barbie's, the shoulders of Cycladic dolls are wider than their hips and their bodies are hard and smooth. They
are an example of what art historian Kenneth Clark terms a "crystalline Aphrodite"—a stylized
plastic pliable) may begin to separate from their "resin" (the plastic base— polyvinylchloride in Barbie's case). Or their
dyes might fade.
In the environmentally conscious nineties, it's hard to remember a time when plastic was considered miraculous. In the fifties,
"Better living through chemistry" was the slogan of the plastic pocket protector set, not an ironic catch phrase coined by
users of hallucinogenic drugs. Science was inextricably tied up with patriotism. The Soviets launched Sputnik in September 1957; we countered four months later with a satellite of our own. Can-do, know-how—these were American things,
as were those big acrylic polymers and giant supermolecules. It had been our manifest destiny to tame a big continent; we
drove big cars; even on the molecular level, we placed our trust in big.
With the introduction of credit cards, "plastic" became a synonym for money. Diner's Club issued the first universal credit
card in 1950, American Express followed in 1958, and by 1968, the best career tip for a youth like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate was simply: "Plastics."
Plastic, Roland Barthes wrote, "is the very idea of its infinite transformation; as its everyday name indicates, it is ubiquity
made visible." It is also democratic, almost promiscuously commonplace. In the past, imitation materials implied pretentiousness;
they were used to simulate luxuries— diamonds, fur, silver—and "belonged to the world of appearances not to that of actual
use." Plastic, by contrast, is a "magical substance which consents to be prosaic"; it is cast, extruded, drawn, or laminated
into billions of household things.
But if Barbie's substance is the very essence of the mid-twentieth century, her form is nearly as old as humanity, and it
is her form that gives her mythic resonance. Barbie is a space-age fertility symbol: a narrow-hipped mother goddess for the
epoch of cesarean sections. She is both relentlessly of her time and timeless. To such overripe totems as the Venus of Willendorf,
the Venus of Lespugue, and the Venus of Dolni, we must add the Venus of Hawthorne, California.
But wait, you say, Barbie is no swelling icon of fecundity: thick of waist, round of shoulder, pendulous of breast and bulging
of buttock. How can you link her with Stone Age, pre-Christian fertility amulets? The connection rests on her feet, or the
relative lack of them.
The Venus of Willendorf is a portable object of veneration. Her legs, like those of other Stone Age "Venuses," taper into
prongs at the ankles. For her to stand up, the prong or prongs must be plunged into the earth, an act that, as she is a representation
of the Great Mother, completes her. Mother Nature, Great Mother, Mother Goddess, Mother Earth—by any name, the female principle
of fecundity is "chthonian," literally "of the earth."
In this context, Barbie's itty-bitty arched feet can be interpreted as vestigial prongs. Their suitability to the wearing
of high heels is a camouflage, diverting the modern eye from their ancient function. No one disputes that Barbie has the trappings
of a contemporary woman, but, either deliberately or coincidentally, they are arrayed on a prehistoric icon. When I raised
the issue with Mattel employees, most responded cryptically with a remark like: "I've heard that said."
Sleek, angular fertility idols are not without precedent. The best-known were produced in the Cyclades, Aegean islands off
the coast of Greece, between 2600 and 1100 B.C. The artist who fashioned the Venus of Willendorf conceived of female anatomy
as a landscape of dimpled knolls; the Cycladic artists, by contrast, translated breasts and bellies into schematized geometric
forms. Like Barbie's, the shoulders of Cycladic dolls are wider than their hips and their bodies are hard and smooth. They
are an example of what art historian Kenneth Clark terms a "crystalline Aphrodite"—a stylized
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