I woke up last week to the tune of Queen Bey’s resounding impact in pop history. Her music video for “Formation” came out of her Grammy-winning music den, getting many things right with each costume change. Her lyrics were empowering; the politics were present; the fashion—well, that fur coat slays.
But what she aces in representing her people, she fails in portraying others. A week ago, she was criticized for playing a Bollywood actress and donning a Desi headpiece in Coldplay’s video for “Hymn for the Weekend.” Her royal highness was accused of cultural appropriation because the champion of black lives had let down a minority.
Meanwhile, on ABS-CBN, Sarah Lahbati circled Joseph Marco in an Egyptian-inspired number on ASAP. The former played a dominating Cleopatra in a skintight leotard, the latter was a six-pack abbed gladiator. Sarah’s bronzer blinded us into thinking this is entertainment that inspires. When in reality, it hardly does.
Appropriation vs. appreciation
Sarah committed the same sin as Beyoncé—the very same one that tainted Selena Gomez, Katy Perry, and Victoria’s Secret. Cultural appropriation, in its simplest sense, is a means of borrowing an element of someone else’s culture and integrating it with your own.
It is that moment we tried on leather jackets inspired by Hell’s Angels amid the tropical hell that is our weather. Or that time we tried the Korean dewy skin look because the girl in Laneige ads looks really good.
In its most complicated, cultural appropriation is the adoption of elements of other cultures often to the detriment of the latter. That is when Karlie Kloss sported a Native American headdress, oblivious to its origins and much more aware of the prancing band onstage.
The error lies in misplacing this element and skewing its relevance to fit the privileged and its context. This often breeds misrepresentation and offends with its stereotypes rather than celebrate a heritage.
Valentino wanted to exalt Africa with its spring 2016 collection. The label perfected its fabrics, a pleasing homage to the wild and the deserts. But the models are another matter. A white woman glistens with all her western artifacts—high nose! Blond hair! Luminizer!—beside African Americans possibly performing a sacred ritual. At its worst, cultural appropriation is misusing an aspect of a foreign culture to fit a contrary purpose. In the cases of Katy Perry’s yellowface, Selena Gomez’s bindi, and Sarah Lahbati’s roleplaying, it’s aesthetic. In the case of Valentino and Victoria’s Secret, it’s exoticism. Imitation here isn’t flattery; it’s insulting.
This is how you do
But this is where it gets—or has always been—tricky. Culture is a fluid hodgepodge of all these universal habits, most of which we picked up through history or long hours on the Internet. This is, after all, our way of evolving. Even Queen Bey isn’t exempted from this mess. How then can we appropriate (and appreciate) correctly? The answer came to our feed when designer Philipp Lim released his spring 2016 campaign. The shoot was led by Ethiopian model and philanthropist Liya Kebede, and was a product of genuine cross-cultural exchange. The result was an inclusive (not objectifying) and honest (not romanticized) portrayal of people that’s less seen.
Put on your shades, @Liyakebede and her 1000 watt smile shot in the glorious Ethiopian sun, alongside beautiful local women dressed in dazzling white traditional garments. The first shot on day 1 of the campaign shoot and the future looks bright. #31stopandsmelltheflowers #SS16campaign #31philliplim #vivianesassen A photo posted by 3.1 Phillip Lim (@31philliplim) on Feb 4, 2016 at 4:27pm PST
We’re allowed to flaunt cultures other than ours as long as the point is to highlight and not ridicule or fetishize them. We may not be able to know every item or trend’s origins, but we can respect the people who hold them closely. Let’s move past visuals and talk about content; appreciation comes with genuine efforts of understanding cultural nuances.
We’re allowed to flaunt cultures other than ours as long as the point is to highlight and not ridicule or fetishize them. We may not be able to know every item or trend’s origins, but we can respect the people who hold them closely. Let’s move past visuals and talk about content; appreciation comes with genuine efforts of understanding cultural nuances.
We may be nice, hospitable, and whatever good trait the Department of Tourism portrays us to have in its campaigns. But that doesn’t matter if we don’t give two fucks about our culturally inappropriate ways.
I remember catching a glimpse of Luna Blanca, a telenovela years back, where its protagonist donned a blackface and everybody praised it for its commentary on beauty. You see why we’re called racist?
In the case of industries like media and fashion, where influence runs strong and can impact the narrowest of minds, cultural (mis)appropriation is dangerous. Not only does it offend, it silences. It changes mindsets; it miseducates. It’s not always that misrepresented people can rage on Reddit or demand apologies from pop acts on Change.org for their insensitivity.
The responsibility lies with perpetrators and their audience. It takes action on both ends—one portrays, the other polices.
They say ignorance is bliss. But ignorance has always been a poor excuse for shrugging off this racist practice.
That shouldn’t be ours now, too, by the way.
Photo courtesy of http://www.themusic.com.au
