When I look through “Girls of Isolation,” I see the kind of ennui and subtle restlessness that settles in the bones, carries itself in the eyes, waits for you and gets into your hair. It is the heavy kind that wraps itself around your shoulders, allowing you to do nothing else but surrender to its cause.
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Historically, the terror of beauty has been released inside of the psyches of women––to be legible as a woman is to be beautiful. We have learned to develop a legibility, a legitimacy, and a twisted agency predicated on the specific labor necessary to create and sustain beauty in the heightened scroll-chaos of Instagram and Twitter.
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