Bombshell

Three years ago I dyed my hair blonde and took my clothes off

I was blonde for nine months, the time it takes for a human life to form. The spotlight created by bleach illuminated and made obvious the path back home. So did my friends.

MAY 2022

How many ways can a person fit into a frame? This centuries-long investigation is ongoing, and historically the figure is feminine.

Another question: What makes a bombshell?

Ethan James Green has asked his friends, muses, and collaborators to illustrate the phrase with their bodies. The descriptor brings to mind two more words: Sex and Femininity. Sex indicates the participation of another, or an audience. Femininity is an achievement. A depth of knowledge not only accomplished by wome

n but often kept on a leash by men. To serve it in a picture is not a mirror. It’s a confirmation: femininity no longer upholds the triumph of masculinity. The dolls storm five flights of stairs to pose under skylights streaked with Chinatown grease. Softened light creates a flattering luminescence. Trunks of wigs and clothing await. We assess who we are, and what we’d like to become. This is us, today. Each sitter’s imagination is their guide. Ethan holds up his camera. Click.

This is a yearbook, a selection of Ethan’s activities over the last year. The cast is tighter than that of his first monograph, Young New York, because life has gotten smaller. Core relationships have deepened with the city’s multiple closures and re-openings. Bombshell was born from this, and the desire to work freely. “I wanted that excitement I had in high school,” Ethan tells me, one night over dinner, “when my friends and I took pictures for fun.” So he called up Lucas Wilson and Marcs Goldberg, and the three set out to do a test shoot. Lucas, a hairstylist, wanted to experiment with styling a selection of his wigs. Marcs, set designer, and Young New York cover girl, was to model. Marcs recalls the summer day: “I’m not a stylist, so I brought over my lingerie and slip dresses. I purchased branches and fresh blooms from the flower district. It felt fun because the pictures weren’t meant for anything in particular.” This spirit of ease alerted Ethan to the potential of carrying it over to everyone else.

“I like to feel cunt,” Marcs laughs, “and you better include that part, bitch!” But she likes to pose for pictures more than seeing the end result. Like talking about a movie after seeing it, Marcs prefers to remember things her way. “Feeling beautiful is fun, but seeing yourself can be jarring. A high femme persona can turn on you.” Yes, it can. After all, bombshell connotes tragedy as much as glamour. Consider Jean Harlow, the first bombshell on record, who dropped dead at the age of twenty-six. Legend says she died by peroxide and Clorox, the lethal formula to her signature platinum. Or Marilyn Monroe, whose death at thirty-six occurred under even murkier circumstances. “She’s fragile,” Marcs tells me, “if I try to touch the girl in the picture she turns to dust.” That girl, the one we can become in front of a camera, always outlives her real-life counterpart.

I think of Marilyn, dead 60 years but still working for our affection on bedroom walls. As she once wrote in her diary: “Actress must have no mouth.” Another actress, Hari Nef, calls me from London. She is an early muse of Ethan; the two met outside a nightclub: he asked to take her portrait. She’s away for three months filming Greta Gerwig’s Barbie movie. On the phone, she talks to me about appearing on screen: “I enjoy my femininity and sexuality. What Ethan does is provide a space for me to participate in the myth of being a bombshell. This caters to a narrow, but deep, crevice of my being. It’s a moment, a gesture. That’s all it is.” A 21st century bombshell has a mouth, and she has new ways to communicate. Hari, among other people in this book, has tasked her digital avatar to provide context for the flesh. Because she is a writer and performer first, a picture does not have the final say.

As a rule, Ethan tells me: “Bombshell is anti-trend and completely feminine.” The heels are too high; the corset pinches the skin. Greasy make-up degrades over time and the bobby pins irritate the scalp. Drag is too restrictive for real life. The stylistic choices in this book aren’t rational and don’t fit neatly into the classic conventions of femininity. We are flamboyant or subdued. Natural and unnatural. It cannot, nor should it be totally explained why a camera activates it, or what makes the sitter arch her foot or raise her arm. In my Bombshell photo, you can see my tits and ass, but my gaze cuts away from the viewer. If I must appear on camera—and it seems in today’s world I must—then let me withhold or display whatever I like. I’m a sissy and my wrist is limp. I am a picture, which is to say, I’m being looked at. And there’s a possibility for pleasure in that.

“I’ve always wanted to have long hair,” Sonny Molina tells me while we sit on the floor of their Lower East Side apartment. As a hairstylist, they’ve mostly worked behind the scenes. Their participation in Bombshell is something of a debut. “I wasn’t allowed to grow my hair out as a kid. I’m proud of how it looks.” Tight coils of auburn fluff spill out past their shoulders, and they regularly flip it from side to side during conversation. “Hair is very emotional,” they tell me. “There’s a reason people cry in salon chairs.” When asked to pose for the book, they felt unsure: “I don’t have the wardrobe of glamorous armor that a lot of women have. I often feel like a woman in menswear. Androgyny suits me for so many reasons, but one of them is being safe in the world. I felt safe with Ethan because we are friends. With Bombshell, I got to try something outside of myself.” Coincidentally, most of Sonny’s looks feature their natural hair.

My friends, Martine Gutierrez and Dara, are in a cab headed to Manhattan, and I’m on speakerphone. Each has waist-length black hair, long limbs, and slant towards the cameras. They often refer to themselves as twins. Martine photographs and dresses her own self-portraits; Dara is a stylist and model. Martine wants to be seen without being noticed, and Dara expresses a fear of being forgotten. Martine uses hair and make-up as tools for her disguises; Dara’s singularity negates a last name. They speak over each other:

D: “I drew a lot as a kid, it’s easier to see myself as a flat 2D image.”

M: “I’ve always wanted to be this glamorous woman, but now I realise it’s too much work.”

D: “Really? Being myself can be difficult. The anonymity of a wig feels free.”

M: “A picture ends up becoming true-r than the actual moment.”

D: “A picture contains aspects of myself I don’t always want to bring into real life.”

Perhaps you should think of these photographs as pin-ups, reminding us of the country, or city, we are defending. Like Rosie the Riveter encouraging women to occupy posts vacated by men, these images ask you to consider not being one. At the time of writing this, masculinity in New York has been eclipsed. Every day I hear about a new person swallowing those blue estradiol pills. Being a man is over. Masculinity can inspire lust, or the desire to be crushed, but has it ever made you dream? Within the world of Bombshell, we use hair, lingerie, and ornaments to serve the composition of the photos and render our bodies transformed to our own liking. We are not passive objects, but active subjects. There is a sense of patriotism, like pin-ups, for our city. For our friends, glamour, and beauty. What we see here is Ethan not just as a photographer, but a facilitator, a director giving his performers free reign.

A sign visible from Ethan’s window reads: New York Life. It is latched onto the opposing building and hangs above the flow of tourists on Canal Street. It can be seen from most vantage points within the studio. When the space becomes a meeting spot at night, the sign glows blue. Small gatherings make it possible for each person to have their moment. The wooden floors make for a good runway, and the fire escape is the smoking room. While asking for a light, you can see the Manhattan Bridge arch perched above the twinkle of traffic. Inside, giggles turn into screams until someone puts on a wig or takes off a dress. Everyone goes quiet as cameras go up: the gags and whispers provide encouragement. The poser might up the ante by climbing onto a ledge, or turning their head in a new direction. We get the shot and keep going. Laughter resumes.

You can buy Ethan’s Bombshell here