Talk about a sad, strange news week.
When I think of Farrah Fawcett, the first thing that comes to my mind is the Farrah Fawcett Styling Head that I got for Christmas back in the 70’s.
When your adolescence corresponded with the feathered hair phase of Americana, a doll to practice on was a good thing. I remember sitting for hours in my bedroom redoing Farrah’s hair and makeup. I didn’t care that bra-less angels with handguns were threatening the feminist movement. I just thought Farrah was beautiful and wanted her hairstyle.
I remember watching Charlie’s Angels, and how popular Farrah was back then but I honestly don’t recall how much media attention was paid to her to compare it to the media machine of today. What I have noticed since the coverage of her death this week is how overly dressed she was as compared to the sex symbols of today.
For example, her most iconic, famous images are pretty conservative when compared to the photo spreads of today’s sex symbols.
She’s in a one piece bathing suit for God’s sake. Not naked with a artfully positioned necktie. She’s smiling like a normal person and not looking at the camera in a sexual way. She’s an adult and not a child posing for publicity. Sure it was cold in the studio that day, but otherwise, her breasts don’t like like melons and aren’t spilling out from her suit.
It’s interesting to note that this photo was taken BEFORE she was famous. Most young women on the cusp of fame show a hell of a lot more skin when they’re trying to get famous. She kept a little mystery and it paid off. This poster sold over 12 million copies
In a lot of her images, she’s fully clothed:
In her later years she posed for Playboy a few times and had that unfortunate naked, art phase that did absolutely nothing for her acting career. It might have paid some bills, but it didn’t get her much work, which proves my point in a way. When she kept her clothes on her career thrived. I wonder why the starlets of today, don’t think to do it that way as well?
I’ve got to admit, when I think of Michael Jackson, he’s always black. I think of the guy from the Thriller album phase before the hair straighteners, skin lightening and excessive plastic surgery. That’s the performer I appreciated and enjoyed. It almost pains me to see photos of him in his later years and I can’t imagine what else he would have done to himself had he lived. As sad as it is that he’s dead, I’m glad that I don’t have to continue to witness his demise.
Last year I blogged about Michael Jackson when Thriller celebrated it’s 25th Anniversary so I’m not going to repeat myself. It’s sad that he died young and didn’t have a chance at a comeback, although I’m doubtful that he was going to jump onto that stage in London and break new ground musically. From the sound of things he would have been lucky to complete the tour, so perhaps it was better that he didn’t collapse live on stage, in front of his fans.
It’s also sad that he’s left behind three children accustomed to living a bizarre existence that on top of mourning the death of their father, will be forced to adjust to a level of normalcy that might just shock the hell out of them at first. I can only imagine the circus that’s in store for them and hope to God someone swoops in to act as their advocate with only their best interests in mind.