A FEW years ago I was diagnosed with breast cancer. When it came
time to decide about a mastectomy I wanted to see a picture – how
was it going to look?
I had imagined that because breasts are round, the surgeon would
make a circular incision and be left with a ring to close up. How would
that be done? How can a circle be drawn into itself?
The photograph I eventually found in an old medical textbook relieved
me greatly. The mastectomy scar looked neat, like a dressmaker’s
dart. The anonymous woman’s head was turned to one side, the
picture cropped at the chin. She wore a delicate pearl necklace. The
surgeon had not used dissolving stitches and there was a regular row
of little keloid dots above and below the satin-stitch scar line. French
knots, I thought. An embroidered scar.
I’m explaining this because when I look at the breast cancer
awareness month campaign photograph by BBDO, I’m not a neutral
viewer.
When I first saw it, I was amused. With the formality and symmetry of
its composition, particularly those two women lying across the front,
this could be a send-up of a school class photo or a sports team
picture.
So let’s go with that image. Let’s call this a generic Class of ‘06
photograph. Statistically speaking one would expect to find that in
of little keloid dots above and below the satin-stitch scar line. French
knots, I thought. An embroidered scar.
I’m explaining this because when I look at the breast cancer
awareness month campaign photograph by BBDO, I’m not a neutral
viewer.
When I first saw it, I was amused. With the formality and symmetry of
its composition, particularly those two women lying across the front,
this could be a send-up of a school class photo or a sports team
picture.
So let’s go with that image. Let’s call this a generic Class of ‘06
photograph. Statistically speaking one would expect to find that in
such a group of 25 women there would be two or three who have breast
cancer. But this gathering appears unaffected and that’s one of the
reasons I hesitate to say that it works.
The agency caption says, “Look at how beautiful we all are. Every
single one of us. Every size. Every shape. Every skin colour.”
Apart from being beautiful, what these women have in common of
course is that they all have (or seem to have) both breasts.
Now imagine that you are someone coming to terms with a new cancer
diagnosis and who faces the removal of a breast. Or that someone you
know well is in that position. Or perhaps you are a woman who has had
a mastectomy.
On the basis of the caption and the composition of the photo, such a
person might well ask whether the beauty of the women in the
photograph did not lie precisely in the fact that they have two breasts.
Over time, millions of women have had this surgery, yet few will have
seen a breast cancer scar until it was carved on their own chest. I am
increasingly puzzled about this.
Prevailing wisdom says that women should not be approached about
breast cancer prevention in a way that uses scare tactics, and I agree.
But surely so prevalent a disease could be handled in a way that takes
account of the fact that it is so common; that makes those who have
lost one or both breasts to cancer feel less freakish?
So that’s my first question about this photograph – where among the 25
is someone with a cancer scar, either from a lumpectomy (removal of
a lump and its surrounding tissue) or a mastectomy (removal of a
whole breast)?
Even we who have such scars must check our remaining breast (if we
have one) for cancer, and we must check our armpits and the scar line
and around it for lumps. We too must “touch ourselves more often”.
And we too are beautiful, regardless of the shape and size of our
scars.
My second question is this – what are these 25 women actually doing?
We know they are meant to be illustrating the slogan “touch yourself
more often”. But is that what we see?
They are aware of and looking at the photographer. They all cover their
breasts, some with their hands – one over each breast – others with an
arm across both; a couple have even managed to shield their breasts
completely behind another woman. Some smile, some are serious,
some look stressed, embarrassed. It’s as though we’ve caught them in
a changing room: we’ve come in unexpectedly and they quickly cover
up.
I can’t get rid of this feeling that along with the deliberate double
entendre of the slogan (“touch yourself more often”) there’s something
unhappily sexual about the photograph. Perhaps I feel uncomfortable
on their behalf because they stare out at us from a vulnerable position,
protectively covering themselves against others’ eyes.
Look, by contrast, at Diana Young’s “One in Eight”. That’s Diana in the
front, the woman with no breasts, two mastectomy scars and the
remote for the camera between her thumbs.
Explaining this work she says that one Saturday morning she invited
six of her closest friends and the daughter of one of them, for lunch
and a photo session.
“We found that every woman’s breasts are as totally individual as her
face,” she writes. “Everyone agreed that my scars didn’t look nearly as
bad as they had expected.”
“After the photos, we were all reluctant to put our shirts back on since
we had all experienced such closeness, honesty and ease during the
shoot.”
And then she explains the title: ” ‘One in Eight’ because the lifetime
risk of being diagnosed with breast cancer is one in eight.”
The first thing about the photograph is Diana’s scars. They are quite
different from mine, and mine differ again from those of the woman in
the first mastectomy photograph I saw. In fact scars differ from one
woman to another as much as do breasts.
Something else about this picture is how much at ease the women are
with themselves, each other and the situation. Because they aren’t
trying to cover themselves they seem relaxed and free. They don’t feel
scrutinised, commented on – and I don’t feel an intruder, embarrassing
shoot.”
And then she explains the title: ” ‘One in Eight’ because the lifetime
risk of being diagnosed with breast cancer is one in eight.”
The first thing about the photograph is Diana’s scars. They are quite
different from mine, and mine differ again from those of the woman in
the first mastectomy photograph I saw. In fact scars differ from one
woman to another as much as do breasts.
Something else about this picture is how much at ease the women are
with themselves, each other and the situation. Because they aren’t
trying to cover themselves they seem relaxed and free. They don’t feel
scrutinised, commented on – and I don’t feel an intruder, embarrassing
them with my presence.
Diana is the only one of the group in full focus. Hers are the only eyes
that meet the viewer’s full on. They challenge me as the viewer, and
engage directly with me, though her half smile softens the challenge a
little. Her eyes speak of courage and the strength to face and speak
the truth about her scarred body, to tell the story of the “One in Eight”.
I also find the photograph works at a political level, as a tool for raising
awareness about breast cancer. Not one of the women involved will
forget this experience. Nor will any of them neglect a breast exam.
They have seen and understood the reality of what happens when you
lose one breast, or both.
But it is also important in reducing the mystery and fear around breast
cancer and its consequences. If you can look at the results and
acknowledge them (through such a photograph) then it’s easier to talk
about such cancer, surgical intervention and scarring. The photograph
could even become a starting reference for someone facing surgery.
There’s another difference between the two photographs. From the
first, I gain a closed impression. The women close themselves off from
us, from each other and from other women with their hands and their
arms across themselves. They exclude anyone apart from
themselves.
By their symbolic action they ward off cancer, protecting themselves
from it and from its taint. But they also seem to be protecting the group
from anyone who might have it. Other women who don’t fit this
definition are outsiders who don’t belong.
The world of this photograph is divided into two – “we” who don’t have it
and who are trying not to get it, and “they” who do, and who therefore
shouldn’t be seen or acknowledged. When I look at it I see only who I
am no longer.
By contrast I experience Diana’s photograph as open; the group
appears to embrace (and consist of) any woman. No one is kept out.
Every woman is welcome and accepted no matter how she looks: we
are all together in this fight against a common threat.
For these and many more reasons, Diana’s photograph helps me
grieve – and heal. And for other women it is surely powerful as well,
with its strong message of hope – and the need for solidarity.