Toward New Feminist Aesthetics

Abstract

Sarah Bahbah (b. 1991) is a Los Angeles–based Palestinian/Jordanian Australian artist known for her provocative photography, which deals with themes of female sexuality, romantic relationships, and millennial angst. Bahbah’s photography style often features seductively posed subjects shot in ostentatious environments, alongside subtitles drawn from her personal experiences and writings.1 A nod to the aesthetics of romantic French films, her “narrative photography” is meant to appear cinematic, “as though [the photos] are from a film,” and are imbued with a kinetic energy (DeFillipis 2021; Burns 2021). Bahbah gained recognition in 2015 following the release of her photography project Sex and Take Out, a playful series that featured mostly female subjects, naked or in underwear, indulgently eating takeout food in often lavish settings such as fancy hotel rooms or doughnut-filled bathtubs. Since then Bahbah has produced similarly styled photography projects, sometimes starring Hollywood celebrities or in collaboration with fashion houses and music labels.While her work has been exhibited in galleries and art shows, Bahbah intentionally selects Instagram to publish it, making it accessible to millions and easy to disseminate (Burns 2021). Aware of the platform’s role in her work’s popularity, she states in her website biography: “With every story Sarah releases on Instagram, her cult-like following responds, leading every series created to go internationally viral” (https://www.sarahbahbah.com/about-1). Bahbah has posited that her popularity is due to her relatability: “I think the reason my work resonates so much is because I’m exposing myself and my flaws, vulnerabilities, and insecurities, and we don’t usually see that in this perfect curation” (Shacknai 2020). While this may reflect feedback that Bahbah receives from many of her followers, I find it unconvincing. I think that it is instead safe to say that Bahbah’s work is popular on Instagram because it is sexy, in-your-face, and highly stylized; the general aesthetic appeal of the photos is doubtless on the visuals-focused platform. Most photographs feature catchy, bold one-liners, such as “I’m not available for the emotionally unavailable” or “If you’re going to be a f*ckboy, at least be good at f*cking”—syntax that is common on social media and digestible by younger audiences. Even vulnerable or sad captions—“I dreamt we were in love, then I woke up”—when coupled with alluring imagery of a brooding actor in bed or in a bathtub, appear faux romantic, in the way movies and books sometimes portray a tortured heroine. As a result, while Bahbah’s photos may be relatable to some, their overall appeal is drawn from the photogenic, beautiful actors ethereally staged in opulent settings—an aesthetic that has become her signature style, traceable across her projects.In October 2020 Bahbah released 3eib!, her first self-portraiture series with a focus on her Arab identity. Consisting of thirty-two images, the series represents a continuation of her trademark aesthetic inspired by film noir (DeFillipis 2021). Its nine distinct settings include a bathtub, a hotel bed, and a swimming pool, contexts prevalent in Bahbah’s work and familiar to her audiences.Throughout the series Bahbah indulges in referencing stereotypical symbols of Arab pop culture, including falafel, knafeh, and Oriental dancing (fig. 1). Bahbah also includes Arabic text alongside her English subtitles. Perhaps this is a tool used to distinguish the series as targeted toward Arab societies; however, it reinforces the exotic features of her work. While these choices may be a straightforward way to exhibit the project’s “Arabness,” they make for a self-exoticizing and Orientalizing series of images. In one particularly confounding photograph, Bahbah is in an Oriental dancing costume with the text, “I’m your habibti. You’re just my dick,” a line that sounds like a pop song lyric (fig. 2). As part of her costume, Bahbah wears a veil revealing only her eyes, which is difficult to unsee as a reference to the hijab or burka—especially overused stereotypes in connection to Arab cultures.Most of the series’ photos hint at an unspecified love interest; however, only one photo makes a direct reference to other actors in Bahbah’s life. It is the series’ first photo, which captures Bahbah in a delicately beautiful church setting with a cheeky yet solemn caption, one that perhaps many can relate to: “I’m sorry to my mother and Allah for the things I have done tomorrow” (fig. 3). This is the only photo that identifies other individuals in Bahbah’s life and explicitly situates her in the cultural and social landscapes she aims to confront. Offering a glimpse into the artist’s relationship with her mother, this photograph exhibits a specificity absent in the others. Opening her series on shame by revealing this relationship, Bahbah adds an intimate, haunting dimension to her work that refines her broad societal critique into one that is specific and familiar. In an interview, Bahbah once shared that “I’m exposing myself to the world before I expose myself to my mum, and the subjects that I’m addressing in this series put me at risk of losing my mum because she’s going to be very disappointed and honestly completely heartbroken” (Shacknai 2020). The earnestness of this sentiment accentuates the photograph’s impact in light of this mother-daughter dynamic, which is not uncommon in Arab societies—or in any society, for that matter.Those of us situated in Arab societies understand and appreciate the risks the artist takes by featuring herself in a work on female sexuality. Yet this bravery is eclipsed by the series’ scattered execution. While its courage rightly merits admiration, Bahbah’s work suffers from shortcomings that have been ignored by commentators and critics who have complacently lauded her work for being “revolutionary” and “unapologetic” while failing to provide an in-depth analysis of it (Egyptian Streets 2020; Jdeed 2020). The Orientalist and self-exoticization elements, which in my view are central to her production, are repeatedly disregarded.If the focus of Bahbah’s photography is unlearning shame around women’s sexuality, the photography of Tamara Abdul Hadi focuses on unraveling toxic masculinity. With an interest in the representations and misrepresentations of minority societies, Abdul Hadi (b. 1980s), an Iraqi Canadian photographer and educator, has produced a diverse repertoire of documentary works on subjects like the Iraqi marshes, a Palestinian neighborhood, and men’s salons in Arab cities. Internationally popular, Abdul Hadi has been published in the New York Times, the Guardian, and Reuters, among others, and exhibited in various museums, including the Musée du Quai Branly and the Fotografiska Museum (http://www.tamarabdulhadi.com/).For her photography series Picture an Arab Man, Abdul Hadi photographed eighty-five Arab men in cities in Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Morocco, Palestine, Tunisia, and the United Arab Emirates. The series’ probing title is an instant invitation to visualize and introspect. Abdul Hadi shoots her seminude subjects against a plain white background that spotlights the men in a vulnerable, intimate light. The range of emotions captured in the series draws the viewer in: the subject’s hand placement, a tan line that tells a story, a pensive look away, eyes locked in astonishment, a grin (figs. 4–5). It subtly communicates the diversity among a group that has been pigeonholed and demonized for centuries, with a dramatic worsening of the public discourse following 9/11 and the beginning of the so-called war on terror. Produced between 2009 and 2014, the work emerged in this context, as Abdul Hadi explains: “When I first began this project, back in 2009, it was in response to the way Arab men have been represented in the mainstream media for a long time—as terrorists, oppressors of women and so forth. That stereotype did not represent the men in my family, my friends, and my father. The project was in reaction to that, so I chose to visualise them as softer, gentler beings” (Sandran 2022).This is not uncommon among diasporic Arab artists, who have been placed in a position to defend their communities and challenge negative stereotypes or have felt obliged to do so not only because of events such as 9/11 but also because of centuries-long misconceptions about Arab societies. Within this context, some artists have produced apologetic works, while others, like Abdul Hadi, have produced more interesting results, paving the way for new directions in Arab arts (Kuhl 2013; Larson 2017). Abdul Hadi’s efforts to tackle negative representations are evident in her project, which closely captures the subjects, allowing viewers to humanize and identify with them, becoming familiar with their details: their freckles, wrinkles, and scars.Though it visually focuses on men, Abdul Hadi’s project has a strong feminist undercurrent pulsing through it. It is distinctly led and informed by her female gaze and outlook: “These images represent my own gaze of the Arab man, one that I see as an Arab woman” (Sandran 2022). This is a crucial source of the series’ impact and represents a shift in perspective and power dynamics as the photographer directs and shoots her male subjects. Between Abdul Hadi’s female gaze and the discreet framing of each photo, the series undeniably exudes a sensual quality, which she has described as “an unexplored aspect of the identity of the contemporary Arab man on the cusp of change in a society that reveres an out-dated form of hyper-masculinity” (Denis 2012). Indeed, viewing these photographs feels like being let in on a secret or a private moment, one that is often concealed and “unexplored.”Initially aimed at deconstructing negative stereotypes about Arab masculinity, Abdul Hadi’s work has produced a more impactful legacy: the expansion of the visual representation of Arab men, one that urges a shift away from toxic masculinity and machismo. Abdul Hadi has also liberated her subjects from her initial reactionary motives: “Many years later . . . my presentation is less reactive, and more simply in celebration” (Sandran 2022). With its subject-forward focus, the project inspires tenderness, inviting us to “picture” a world where Arab men can be “softer, gentler beings.” In her work Abdul Hadi not only pivots away from but contributes to a making over of toxic masculine representations of Arab men. In doing so, she presents subjects who are potential feminist allies, rejecting predominant toxic masculinity and patriarchal standards.Bahbah and Abdul Hadi, while unalike in their content and aesthetics, develop projects that speak to each other. Both artists encourage us to stop policing the sexuality of individuals in Arab societies and advocate for liberation from social constructs and expectations. Despite its self-Orientalizing tendencies, Bahbah’s series represents a necessary effort to reclaim women’s bodies. Meanwhile, Abdul Hadi’s work, initially in response to harmful stereotypes, goes against the grain of hypermasculinity, calling on viewers of all genders to accept and imagine gentler and less stereotyped modes of being. The difference between the two artists does not hinge on style, where Bahbah stages luscious photographs and Abdul Hadi produces realistic documentaries. Instead, the main contrast lies in each artist’s approach to tackling their subject matter. While Abdul Hadi centers and spotlights her subject, Bahbah confines hers within stylistic choices that reproduce tropes and deflect from her concerns around shame.In her series, which seemingly targets Arab societies, Bahbah has reused and adapted several images and writings from her previous works. For example, one photo includes the caption “I had to pleasure myself twice today just to wake up,” a line featured in her series This Is Not for You (2018). Additionally, the caption “I’m your habibti. You’re just my dick” is an adaptation from For Arabella (2017), which included the caption “I’m your beauty queen. You’re just my dick.” Consequently, the two primary distinguishing factors between 3eib! and the artist’s previous projects are the incorporation of Arab tropes and the artist’s appearance as the protagonist. This raises the question: Can it be said that only Arab societies exhibit shame around female sexuality? In other words, the readaptation of similar imagery and language from previous works blurs the differences between 3eib! and Bahbah’s past projects that lacked cultural specificity. While 3eib! may maintain the approachability of her work to non-Arabs, the recycling of imagery fails to uphold Bahbah’s implication that this work is shocking only to Arabs, given that her overall body of works has been considered provocative or scandalous by general audiences as well. While there are of course some specificities in the way Arab communities deal—or don’t deal—with female sexuality, the similarity in execution between 3eib! and Bahbah’s previous projects suggests that there are more commonalities than differences between Arab societies and other groups vis-à-vis the subject of female sexuality.Meanwhile, Abdul Hadi concentrates on her subject in a style she describes as “natural, up close, [and] honest,” explaining that “we have to look at our culture locally, not through or in reaction to a Western lens. . . . A lot of our photographers think about ‘what would be interesting for me to show to the West about our people?’ Our tendency to focus on our taboos or internal struggles in a sense re-orientalises our people. I try to shy away from any controversy” (Alsalman 2020). This notion of Western audiences or a “Western lens” is a persistent contention around visual cultures of and about the region (Bowcock 2014; Dafoe 2020; Harvey-Davitt 2015; Khadraoui 2017; Noor 2021; Taylor n.d.). While this factor cannot be dismissed because of the region’s colonial history, if not for other reasons, it is also important not to reduce the conversation to how the Arab world relates to the West. This line of thinking not only suggests that “Western audiences” are homogeneous and monolithic but, more important, often stifles Arab individuals, preventing them from discussing their experiences for fear that they will be misrepresented by a “Western audience.”Given the transnational and diasporic backgrounds of both artists and their audiences, it would be misleading to single out a “Western lens” or an “Arab” one, for that matter. Indeed, the trajectories of both Bahbah and Abdul Hadi are in and of themselves an indication that the East-West divide is porous and groundless. Still, Abdul Hadi’s aforementioned appeal to “look at [our] culture locally” underpins her method, in which she centers her subjects in her photography. This differs from Bahbah’s approach, in which her main concerns—stigmas around shame and female sexuality—are out of focus due to the distracting incorporation of various stereotypes.Ultimately, both artists are “chipping away at a monolith,” to quote Abdul Hadi, especially with the mundanity of extremist misogyny not only in the Middle East and North Africa region but also across the world (Alsalman 2020). Their projects represent vital contributions to visual materials on and around the subjects of feminism, gender, and sexuality in the region, creating openings in our visual and verbal cultures. Such efforts allow us to envision and carve more pathways for feminist aesthetics and actions that can be at once ambient, daring, and enriching.