I don’t think I ever really felt ugly until 6th grade. I was raised by a mother and father who always praised my intelligence and creativity; they really did not have an eye for nor an interest in aesthetics. I didn’t really notice my appearance – my wild, sea-weed like curls, the explosion of freckles on my face, my alabaster glow which later earnt me the nickname ‘ghost’ – until the very end of my primary school education. I wasn’t really made aware of it, as I never felt inclined to compare myself to my peers. Until I met Dolly, and her chief competition, Girlfriend. Two girls of the same elite, media environment, they competed for my attention, usually resulting in an eventual tie as I gave them both my unwavering affection.
In my pre-teen years, magazines for young girls were in scant supply, and the dotcom boom was well and truly yet to take off. When I was a tween, you had a handful of options: Smash Hits for TV/Movie/Music news, Dolly Magazine, or Girlfriend Magazine. I was 10, and after my favourite arts and crafts magazine folded, I landed my hands on a copy of Dolly Magazine, Australia’s favourite tween-age glossy for the discerning pop tartlet. According to its publisher it is “the single most trusted source of information for teenager girls”.
Dolly Magazine 1998 with Claire Danes on the cover
Maybe it had Dawson’s Creek on the cover. Or a Zach Hanson centre fold to add to my every growing shrine of boy band paraphernalia. Dolly Magazine, as you can probably guess from the featured celebrities splashed across the cover that caught my pre-pubescent eye, is the Australian equivalent of America’s beloved Seventeen or Teen Vogue. They were a girl’s pop-culture bible, and the ultimate go-to for any young fangirl wanting to read about boys, fashion, health, tv, movies, music, not to mention the ever popular sealed-section. I wasn’t even a teenager yet, but boy did I want to be one. Whilst I couldn’t speed up my body clock, I could enter girl world through these portals of pop culture.
Every month when the new issue of these magazine would come out I would treat them as gospel, seemingly preached from a heavenly host of older, stylish, smarter, popular ethereal beings who sat somewhere within their glamourous inner Sydney city offices. I learnt much, and I learnt fast, unconsciously programming myself to fit within the quintessential target demographic of 12-18. Obviously, age is a large part of this requirement, but a keen interest in boys, fashion, makeup and celebrity culture counts for a lot too. I’d always been friends with boys, and having an older brother meant I was often in the company of the opposite sex. Magazines taught me that not only should I care about the opposite sex, I should also care about what they thought about me. I should care right down to the hair on my head, the clothes on my body, the makeup on my face and the fat beneath my flesh. Was I charismatic? Was I pretty enough? Did I have an adequate gaggle of girly friends that would, by extension, render me part of the “in crowd”? I found myself pushing and pulling, stretching and altering my appearance and attitude. Young Camilla felt desperately inadequate, attempting to remedy any personality flaws with the help of these magazines like they were commandments written in stone.
Was I happy before hand? Quite possibly. What child from your generic middle-class family home isn’t? But suddenly happiness became unattainable. The most important thing I learnt from these glossy periodicals is that not only should I care about fashion, about boys, about the zits on my chin and the amount of boobage in my bra, but that because I was a girl I should care. My vagina was my downfall, a physiological trait that rendered me a consumer of the highest order. I couldn’t help it. I was a girl. I was made this way. I would always want, want, want, because there was a never ending list of things out of my reach. What was fashionable was always changing, leading young girls everywhere round and round like a dog chasing its tail (except dogs have more luck in this venture).
It wasn’t until probably two years ago when I started studying journalism that I learnt of the media’s power and the manufacturing of desire. I learnt that I’d been duped. I was but a mere pawn in a system that is designed to make money from making girls feel bad about themselves. I’m proud of the fact that I don’t feel that a bottle of perfume will enhance my quality of life, or that the key to success lies in a pair of shoes, a dress, or an expensive hair cut. I trip up from time to time, as my credit card debt will testify. My media consumption’s changed not just with age (and a brief graduation from Dolly and Girlfriend to Cosmopolitan and Cleo), but also with the times. Tumblr and fashion blogs over costly magazines is now the riguer du jour for the conscientious female. Of course, these can also be harmful too, as I’ve written about previously.
I think these magazines still enjoy a good sized readership. Thankfully, some of them have jumped on board the positive body image brigade, with Australian journalists like Mia Freedman leading the pack with the National Body Advisory Group. Their most notable achievement is the Industry Code of Conduct on Body Image. It’s non-compulsory set of guidelines for media outlets, which lists things such as the need to portray a healthier weight, a diverse range of girls, fair placement of advertising material, etc. You can check it out here if you’re interested.
This year I made a pledge to only consume media that will enrich my intellect and give me a positive outlook on life. I adore Gala Darling, Wellness WA (whom I occasionally blog for), Charade Style, Jetta Vegas, and loads more which you can find in the links tab to your right. What I want to know is, what magazines/blogs do you read? I’m always interested in finding new blogs and for overloading my feed.
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