You know who said that? A man, writing about the power of another (fictional) man. Which must be why women try so hard to ignore it. Why else would Barbara Kruger, one of the seminal feminist artist icons of the past century, collaborate on a W cover featuring It monster, Kim Kardashian?
Now, artists have disappointed me before, like when I found out that Sidney Lumet was responsible for Joel Schumacher's career (only forgivable thanks to Schumacher's first directorial effort, Cousins). Or when Kevin Kline put Dinu Lipatti's Partita No. 1 in D Flat on his iTunes Celebrity Playlist (no need to go slumming, Kevin, we get that you're just a guy who puts his jeans on one leg at a time).
But the Kardashian/Kruger cover is just perverse; and not in that good, "Oh, I've been provoked, let's think about this issue," kind of way, but in a, "Why aren't you dead yet, every day you continue you're pissing on your legacy," way.
The only sensible explanation I can come up with lies in the Kardashians' fucked up devotion to the letter K. I imagine that some sort of Veruca Salt-tantrum happened in the W offices as Kim (the third K is silent and therefore not racist) Kardashian demanded, "I want an artist with a K name, now, Editor-in-Chief, NOW!" And maybe Kruger acquiesced in the hopes that once and for all, the hoi polloi might stop confusing her with Jenny Holzer.
At any rate, the W cover announces that art has officially gone to fuck in a fuckbasket. In celebration of this scourge, I offer a couple of alternate text choices for the cover:
For even more Kardashian covers, go here.
Follow Carol Hartsell on Twitter: www.twitter.com/carolrhartsell