When I first took in this picture, my heart when out to her. As an avid US Weekly reader, I always refer to “Britney” as my favorite train wreck. She was the sugary-sweet teen sensation who is a good part of a decade younger than me and reminiscent of a tarty-girl next door. At the peak of her pop-princess reign, I remember routinely trying to persuade my 14 year-old niece into looking up to someone…cooler…edgy-er…maybe just a tad bit more artistically talented. Britney has some catchy music and in my estimation, she is a solid and good second-rate performance artist…but that has never been my issue with her. From early on in her career Britney seem to find her value…her worth as a brand pivoted around titillation (much like her pop culture momma, Madonna). My issue with Britney, in regards to my adolescent niece, was her tendency to reach out for a shorter shirt or naughty stockings with a subtle desperation for affirmation (very un-Madonna-like). Until, of course, take this road to its natural conclusion and you have a mother of two flashing her naked va-jay jay all over Los Angeles.
Unlike Madonna, Britney’s titillation never grew up and just got kind of sad…
Today was the first time I witnessed the visual raw emotion of her very public pain and thought I recognized something about it. There is some part of me that identifies with the expression on her face. I have been there, maybe not to the same depths or on such a visible stage but growing up is hard to do (especially with a mental illness, an unfortunate drug problem, under the microscope of public scrutiny, and rich enough to not have benefited from the experience of being told “no” ).
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