MERMAIDS OFF DUTY
Where do fantasies go on their smoke break?
written by Maryse Bernard
creative concept by Maura Fallon
Whimsy-maxxing has the internet in a glittery chokehold, covering everything in a plastic sheen of artificial rhinestones and stick-on pearls to make the mundane feel a bit more enchanted.
And who are we to judge the girls who wish to cover their coffee cups in colorful gems? At this point in late-stage capitalism, anyone with the capacity for whimsy should be applauded, not shamed. Regardless of trend-chasing, a dash of sparkle can offer harmless escapism from the daily slog.
But somewhere along the way, we lost the truly strange stuff. The gross stuff. The dirty stuff.
The trash.
The goblin lurking in the stump. The kelpie shrieking from the shore. The trickster fae. The humanoid creature you probably shouldn’t make eye contact with. Even the most iconic cryptids seem to have been exiled from the highly aesthetic, jewel-toned collage of contemporary fantasy.
Fantasy, in its current imagining, is undeniably clean.
So we dig for magic in the trash.
Here, the siren has finished performing and retreated to the back lot with her best friends for a smoke. Her hair is sweat-slicked to her skin. Her Aquamarine YouTube-tutorial makeup starts to smudge. She’s hungover, reaching for another Pilsner. She hunches over, no longer flexing her abs.
Iridescent tails slap against cracked concrete. Lower-back tattoos add to the mermaids’ mythology. They smoke Marlboros from a tropical-patterned inflatable pool–10 bucks on Marketplace.
“Trashy” has always been a slippery word. It pretends to describe an aesthetic while quietly judging the person wearing it. Too much makeup. Not enough clothes. Too much glitter. Not enough restraint. Too sexy. Too loud. Too fake.
And when those things are associated with girls, the line between bad taste and bad behavior becomes even blurrier.
The lower cut jeans, the lower brow art.
Describing what girls make as “trash” or “camp” keeps the art safely at arm’s length. We’re allowed to enjoy it without admitting we like it. We can love the bedazzled mini skirt ironically. We can wear the gas station sunglasses as a reference. We get to embrace the tackiness, all the while dismissing it.
It’s easier to dispose of girl art instead of digging for its substance.
But in this world, would a mermaid apologize for her discount shells?
Her treasure chest is a beer cooler filled with hand-painted crafts from Michaels. Her costume jewelry and fake diamonds tangle with cherished family heirlooms. These rocks, trinkets, and road trip souvenirs are of immeasurable value. This collection, curated over decades, can be found in no museum but her own. Nothing matches. Everything goes perfectly together.
Her treasure may be trash to you, but it’s not for you. She finds it beautiful, and therefore, it is.
And maybe that is the fantasy we are interested in now: one we don’t need to justify. Not pristine, sanitized, perfectly symmetrical, or consumable, but a fantasy we allow ourselves to live in and to love. Dirty, trashy, ugly, and all.
It may be dismissed, but it’s ours.
