This article originally appeared in T&S Issue 42, Summer 2001.
Can popular media be vehicles for radical ideas? Do women’s magazines, for example, offer a means for feminist messages to reach much larger numbers of women than more overtly feminist publications could ever hope to reach-or are commercial women’s magazines inherently conservative and antipathetic to any kind of feminism? Here Srimati Basu puts this much-debated question in a less frequently examined cultural context, analysing the contradictory messages about gender and sexuality that appear in the Bengali women’s magazine Sananda
(This piece is an edited version of a more detailed analysis of Sananda, which Srimati Basu has published in the journal Feminist Media Studies (Vol.1.2, July 2001).)
Popular media are often viewed as reproducing patriarchal attitudes rather than subverting them. Members of the ‘women and media’ division of the recent on-line preparatory working groups for the ‘Beijing plus 5’ Meeting [1] have been vigorously arguing about the most critical global issues related to media, such as the role of cyberspace, the creation of educational and radical products by women’s groups using a range of media, and the need to contest dominant media representations of women. Popular magazines or television or radio programmes been largely ignored as avenues of change, and seen instead as obstacles feminists need to demolish or work around. And yet, popular media reach a large variety of women in ways that are beyond the capacity of individual feminist groups. They may be able to raise feminist issues in non-didactic ways, making them part of everyday conversations. The question is, does putting potentially radical messages in the context of glossy consumer products and domestication inevitably contaminate them?
Sananda: a space for feminist conversation?
If one divides Indian women’s magazines based on the subjects, format and target audience, there is a continuum of feminist awareness of sorts. I visualise this as having Stardust, with its virtual obliviousness to women’s socioeconomic or cultural problems, at one end, Femina and Eve’s Weekly close by down the line (even though they have been making recent claims to representing ‘real’ issues for women). Manushi, an ad-free progressive magazine focusing on issues of gender and class, is at the other end. At the Stardust end, there are no pretensions to subvert, and at the Manushi end, no pretensions to provide fashion or cooking tips. The publication I want to talk about here, Sananda, falls somewhere in the middle; it is squarely within the glossy commercial genre, but simultaneously makes a claim to being ‘feminist’ both in the sense of covering allegedly taboo topics relating to women and including a range of subjects not necessarily coded as women’s domain.
Arguably, a magazine like Sananda sees itself as being a different voice than Femina, but is enmeshed in relations of production that are similar. The typical consumer is projected as female, urban, wealthy or at least upper middle class, young (although the recipes and sewing projects contradict this somewhat), deeply appreciative of the depth and variety of ‘Bengali culture’ while being a trendy consumer of global news and products. A glance at any Table of Contents shows a variety of issues that are often broader in scope than most women’s magazines, including travel, politics, fiction (rarely in the romance genre), and health/environment, but the giant fashion model visibly dominates the other images. She is magnified several times in size in proportion to the others (though her body is waif-thin), signifying the economic imperatives that govern a glossy magazine brought out by a commercial publishing empire. As Gloria Steinem demonstrates in ‘Sex, Lies and Advertising’, articles and images in women’s magazines are often forced to reflect the ethos of femininity portrayed in ads if magazines are to retain major advertisers. In Sananda, thus, the giant model on the Table of Contents page sells the designs of a particular boutique but also amplifies the significance of the numerous other clothing and cosmetics ads filling the magazine, underlining the conditions of the magazine’s continued existence.
The editor, Aparna Sen, embodies several contradictions as well: she is known as a film director and regional film star, who draws mass appeal from having starred in numerous commercial films but intellectual credibility from being an important face in ‘art’ film, e.g. Satyajit Ray’s Teen Kanya. In certain editorials, she emphasises her position within the world of film criticism: daughter of a well-respected film critic, working with Ray on a film (the ultimate status symbol in the cinema of Bengal), and a film director. Her films, such as 36 Chowringhee Lane, Parama and Sati, dealing respectively with the alienation of an Anglo Indian woman teacher, the erasure of sexual desire and markers of selfhood of an elite housewife, and the material significance of compulsory marriage for a poor woman married to a tree, have been important feminist films in Indian cinema, and her authority as the maker of those films marks her authority as editor of a magazine that speaks about transgressive topics related to women.
In other editorials, Aparna Sen constructs identities as a political progressive (anti-fundamentalism, pro-‘Fire’ [2]), a consumer of international trends (Vitamin E, no-starch diets), and simultaneously a product of a loving ‘traditional’ Bengali family symbolised by her grandparents’ mutual love (this last category is not specifically contradictory to her identity as a feminist, but complicates it in interesting ways). She marks herself as an intellectual who challenges gender and cultural norms while being firmly in tune with Bengali culture, thus embodying Sananda’s difference from other kinds of women’s magazines on both ends of the continuum and its potential as a unique space for feminist conversation.
Sananda cannot simply be analyzed as a magazine which has a superficial feminist packaging but really sells products and recycles narrow definitions of femininity. Rather, it is more productive to analyze it in terms of the various demands it must negotiate: incorporating and interpreting the presence of feminism, retaining the more traditional women’s magazine reader’s expectations of intricate domestic arts, preserving elite and middle-class values, selling an ideology of consumption, symbolising Bengali culture, representing cosmopolitanism in its coverage of national and international issues. These discourses complement and also contradict each other, producing zones of unease. The unease goes to the heart of the question about popular magazines as feminist vehicles: can conflict be expressed in terms that are oppositional to dominant ideology, and possibly liberating? Or does it express itself as mild heartburn and queasiness that is soon forgotten amid the numerous temptations of consumption?
Sananda in context: Bengali gender norms
The fact that Sananda is a Bengali magazine is critical for the forms of femininity it invokes. These relate to the specific meanings of gender identity in colonial and postcolonial Bengal. Issues centring on women such as satidaha [3] and widow remarriage were at the heart of ideological and political struggles in the earlier part of the nineteenth century. They formed the rationale for colonial legal intervention in the interests of ‘civilisation’ as well as giving grounds for Indian resistance to colonial interference, and an impetus for reform within Indian communities. In the latter part of the century, as the nationalist project occupied centre stage, the ‘woman question’ appeared to fade away. Partha Chatterji argues, however, that this fading away was not merely a case of new political priorities overshadowing gender issues, it represented a consistent approach to gender issues by reformers. ‘Western’ material resources and practices were seen as beneficial for the new nation, but ‘Eastern’ spirituality was seen as superior: the ‘outer’ forms of the coloniser’s world were to be embraced but the ‘inner’ Indian world was to be sacrosanct from external intervention. Reform for women, who were associated with the ‘inner’ world, was thus to come from within the community. Ideally, the ‘new woman’ (educated, middle-class, refined, modest) was to be nothing like a memsahib or Englishwoman, yet she was to be a vast improvement over other Indian women of previous generations and poorer classes. Women could move into the public sphere and receive all its material advantages while embodying a particular form of femininity internally. Male conduct had no corresponding prescriptions for modesty and purity.
It is startling to see how little Partha Chatterji’s argument has gone out of date for the contemporary Bengali woman. The Sananda reader is constantly addressed through a discourse of sexual modesty and decency, and contrasted to the ‘over Westernised’ and the ‘old fashioned’ woman, in ways that eerily echo nineteenth century injunctions. Dulali Nag’s analysis of contemporary sari advertisements shows admakers’ continuing attempts to invent a nostalgic ‘essential’ Bengali tradition, which idealises rural life and women’s domesticity and beauty, but is to be consumed by the wealthy urban elite. Both the imaginary rural culture as well as literary and artistic ‘high’ traditions become very important in signifying contemporary Bengali culture, which is represented as having a uniquely different spiritual location and intellectual profundity.
In this piece I focus on Sananda articles that deal explicitly with sex/sexuality, subjects that might seem wildly transgressive given the history of prescriptive sexual modesty for the Bengali bhadramahila (a term that has been translated into English as ‘gentlewoman’). It is easy to be distracted by the shock and horror of finding taboo topics on the printed page, but are such moves in fact rupturing established norms for understanding sexuality?
Mysteries of sex
An article on sex education, ‘How to inform your child about the mystery of birth’ (22 May 1998) makes the claim to being a modern radical move: the editor introduces it as an important resource for adhunik (modern) men and women who need to be able to tell their children about men’s and women’s bodies and the ‘mystery’ of birth. ‘Experts’ in various fields (doctors, child psychologists, teachers, poets) are summoned up as authorities. But the headlines of the articles themselves shift the terms of the discussion: although the narrative is cast in terms of a child’s questions regarding sex on television, (‘What were Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas doing? Why weren’t they wearing any clothes?’), the responses are immediately framed as being about the ‘mysteries of birth,’ bypassing non-reproductive sexual behaviors altogether (presumably Douglas and Stone had not been shown in a scene where she was trying to get pregnant!). The American movie couple represents the non-spiritual, mindless fuck whose ‘meaning’ is completely ignored, as opposed to Indian couples who are always represented in terms of reproductive sex. The answer to the child’s question is:
The vessel/jug in the mother’s stomach has an egg in it. When the father and mother love each other and want to have a child, then the egg hatches and a child is made in the stomach… People are naked when they do private things like bathing, and when they caress each other with love (aador) to make a child then clothes cannot be worn either (the passive voice is part of the text).
Furthermore, the act is described as specifically heterosexual, as something that only the male and female ‘species’ can do to each other, and is completely framed within the implied context of marriage. The hypothetical question concerns a television moment rather than the primal scene of one’s own parents, creating an alienation from the topic that need never be related back to the parents’ bodies, or to the child’s own.
The visuals accompanying the article show a nonchalant cartoon child interrogating an overwhelmed mother and startled father. The child voice of the text asks no inappropriate follow-up questions, makes no connection with his/her own sexuality nor even his/her own genitals; the cartoon child in the images also seems mostly preoccupied with his toys but appears, subversively, rather more mischievous and apt to make trouble. And yet, we might surmise, the hypothetical child who had asked the Douglas/Stone question would likely be puzzled and mis/uninformed on at least the following counts: were Douglas and Stone engaged in babymaking? Might nakedness be somewhat necessary for reproduction, rather than a privacy issue? What about this mysterious hatching of an egg in response to external caresses?
The real mystery of the article for the putative child may be the missing and invisible genitalia. Note that the only actor in the babymaking piece is the uterus; it is described as a kolshi, a jug, that is a receptacle with a specific shape. The uterus mysteriously blossoms in response to aador; the vulva, the vagina and even the penis are absent as delivery routes, and of course as sites of pleasure. There is simply no connection between the genitalia and sex or reproduction. There is also the mysterious concept of aador, that can be variously translated as respect or love or hugging or making out; while this aador is used to characterise sex, the child is also reassured that parents perform aador towards children too, and this latter is described as the best kind of aador.
Such information, which is supposed to be timely and correct, provides completely non-usable data; there would be absolutely no possibility of having sex or even recognising it from this description, not least because critical bodily zones are absent from it. Apart from accuracy issues-telling a girl there is one egg waiting to hatch in her stomach gives false information about the ovarian cycle and the uterus (which is the place where the baby really grows, not in the stomach)-a significant concern ought to be the very real occasions on which genitalia make an appearance in the Bengali child’s life. Knowing the connection between genitalia and sex, and the difference between reproduction and pleasure, might help children understand their self-stimulation as a process of sexual development rather than a vile habit, and it might enable children to resist sexual abuse in Bengali homes if they could understand which body parts were used to do what and thus why they could protest certain advances that were pitched to them as games or as special secrets.
Framing the conversation in terms of marriage and reproduction, and the distant future, renders invisible the many forms in which children are likely to encounter an actual penis and vulva, or witness sex acts, or encounter their own sexuality. Thus the outrageousness of the topic is contained, and sex is associated with shame and culturally appropriate modesty. While the apparent focus is on modernisation and sex education, the message emphasises compulsory reproduction and represents women as individuals who derive ultimate pleasure from mothering, given that aador towards children is said to give supreme satisfaction.
Marriage, for and against
An article on ‘Marriage versus Living Together’ (3 April 1998-the actual phrase ‘living together’ is transcribed in Bengali) also appears to make a transgressive move by its very nature because it suggests the possibility of an alternative to compulsory marriage. In advertising the article, the monthly editorial frames the two options as roughly equal alternatives, comparing the love and happiness of two longtime unmarried Indian couples who are well known actors and authors with that of the editor’s married grandparents who are described as having a ‘profound companionship’. The author of the article, Mallika Sengupta, describes herself as an oppositional (pratibadi) writer, and uses a plethora of historical details and sociological studies as well as interviews to make her point that there is really not much ‘difference’ between the two options, that both forms involve love and strife and companionship and responsibility. She describes Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir as the archetypal cohabiting couple, emphasising their aversion to owning and possessing spouses. She characterises Adam and Eve as the first couple who ‘lived together,’ because societal shame and prescribed ‘artificial’ codes of behaviour had not yet come into being. Interviews with various Bengali couples who have lived together are used to show that living together may be ‘marriage in waiting’ for those waiting to be divorced, or a period of figuring out the other person’s reliability, or a means of getting together in the midst of very busy schedules.
Perhaps most importantly, Mallika Sengupta emphasises a materialist feminist perspective, arguing that women’s economic and emotional independence is a necessary precondition for cohabitation to be viewed positively, given patriarchal ideologies whereby a woman is deemed a whore if she relies on a man for economic support outside marriage and an ideal role model if this reliance is within marriage. That is, she shows an awareness that marriage is an economic necessity for women based on their dependence, rather than a mystical status, and she also points to the sexual double standard whereby female sexuality is commodified and subjected to moral censure when not bound within patriarchal property relations. She points to the class dimensions of the debate, to the irrelevance of the particular issue for non-elite women as well as to the violence that can befall poor women who have few economic alternatives.
Mallika Sengupta cites a Swedish study showing that a majority of couples living together continued to do so long-term without marrying, given that the ‘legitimacy’ of children was not a concern within that system, i.e. legal paternity was not judicially or morally significant. She hypothesises that if Bengali women express an interest in living together with partners rather than marrying, this may be an index of their dissatisfaction with marriage, and that the rise in divorce rates is another aspect of this dissatisfaction. She concludes that as long as there is a hierarchical relationship between the husband and wife:
…women will be confined, dependent; they will be beaten and they will be burned in tandoors. Then, they will look for alternatives. If a marriage can be an abode of love between equals rather than a pyramid of hierarchy, then marriage may last a few more centuries. Otherwise women will want to look for alternatives. It is quite likely that this alternative may be living together or marriageless companionship.
Overall, the article thus makes no overt attempts to condemn the practice of living together for those who do it. Moreover, it ends with the explicit feminist threat that the onus for preserving marriage is on men, who need to relinquish and to share power.
Mystical inevitability
But the cultural assumptions that frame this critique in the article show some significant cracks. Perhaps most remarkable is the mystical inevitability of marriage, the constant reiteration that living together is just fine and all sorts of great people do it, but for some mysterious and not quite explicable reason marriage becomes a preferred closure anyway. The article opens with a question posed to the author by a famous poet colleague, who asks her why, as a writer who favours a persona of protest, she is getting married rather than living together; Mallika Sengupta admits that the thought intrigued her but never answers it in the article. The aura of the unanswered question pervades the article: given that the audience is aware that she is married, the indicated answer seems to be that ultimately marriage is prescribed and pleasurable, although one can consider the theoretical possibility of alternatives.
This is echoed in several interviews where the poet Joy Goswami and the film director Gautam Ghose both insist that there is no difference between marriage and cohabitation but that they got married because of ‘societal injunctions’ or ‘people saying bad stuff’. A sweetness and solidity to the institution of marriage is demonstrated through further facts about the Swedish study of long-term cohabiting couples, whose children are attracted to marriage despite there being no stigma to cohabitation. And even the feminist threat in the conclusion, that women may prefer cohabitation if marriage continues to be hierarchical, is based on the assumption that women as a group would ultimately prefer heterosexual marriage rather than other forms of sexuality or even alternative expressions of heterosexual desire.
The putative child makes its appearance again, to safeguard the necessity of marriage. While living together is seen to be comparable to marriage for childless couples, the argument changes entirely with the child in the picture. Mallika Sengupta contends: ‘there are very few instances of living together with a child or having a child while living together, because no parents want the risk of bringing a child into such uncertainty, or at least we don’t have those conditions in our country yet’. This ‘uncertainty’ is never explained; particularly, no explicit connection is drawn to the stigma of illegitimacy as being a consequence of patriarchal norms of descent and property ownership, despite the articulation of the connected argument that marriage treats women as forms of property. Marriage is depicted as an important path for safeguarding children’s economic rights: legal expert advice is cited to demonstrate the difficulties of obtaining maintenance for children of non-married couples. There is the acknowledgment that ‘marriage is socially imperative because of the extreme dependence on the stamp of paternity,’ but there is no attempt to analyse the economic or moral basis of this prescription or to envisage liberation from this norm in the same way as divorce is visualised as liberation for the dissatisfied married woman.
The article is illustrated with photographs of two young, urban, wealthy and happy couples in various poses, seeming to represent marriage vs. cohabitation. In one set, the woman appears to be coded as ‘Bengali’ through saris, bangles and long hair, while the other woman is in shorts, a skirt and a nightie and marked as ‘Westernised’. The man pictured with the first woman is in a kurta-pajama in one image, but in the others he is wearing a shirt and trousers; the man with the second woman wears shorts, a singlet and just a towel in one picture. The easy assumption to make would be that the first couple represent the married unit and the other the cohabiting unit, that is cohabitation is represented as westernised and ultimately alien while the true Bengali soul, represented by the docile Bengali female body in ‘traditional’ attire, is the preferred alternative. This reading fits nicely with Partha Chatterji’s analysis that the male may be unmarked by cultural specificity in attire, and can incorporate westernisation without dismantling societal norms, whereas the woman is expected to embody and internalise cultural traditions including the inevitability of marriage. However, there is no specific label attached to these pictures, and given the assertions in the article that both forms are equal with respect to love and companionship, it is possible to see the images as inverting easy expectations, and mixing up assumptions of who might subscribe to marriage or cohabitation.
Similarly, the short interviews play with the meanings of the central essay in various ways. These statements on the topic at hand come from painters, singers, dancers, actors, directors, writers, feminist organisers; the sample includes an equal number of men and women. Some of the interviewees express virulent opposition to the concept of living together, notably including all the film actors who are most wont to be characterised as morally lax and sexually promiscuous. They characterise cohabitation as unthinking imitation of the West, as temporary and non-monogamous, as a futile attempt to escape social duties, that is, as a spectre against which marriage looks wholesome, responsible and emotionally meaningful. And yet, even as the dancer and actor Mamata Shankar calls cohabitation ‘slimy, dirty…self-indulgent…about suspicion and bodily lust,’ she says ‘I don’t believe in wedding vows and in society. I want to remain true, pure and faithful within myself’.
In other interviews, even where the speaker is theoretically unopposed to cohabitation, there is always the ultimate move whereby marriage is recuperated as a stable social norm. From the singer Indrani Sen, ‘I believe the auspicious occasion creates a beautiful intimacy between the two people’; from the photographer Raghu Rai, ‘if one lives in society one has to follow its laws’; and from the feminist activist Madhu Kishwar, ‘in societies where the matter is viewed as being entirely between two individuals, marriage or living together are irrelevant. But here [with families involved] there are many people to put moral pressure on husbands, who then cannot break the relationship and run easily’. The trope of the child appears again and again to justify marriage, although there is never any explanation of how exactly cohabitation is supposed to harm a child physically or emotionally: from Madhu Kishwar again, ‘the issue is also connected with giving the gift of an emotionally and physically protected life to the next generation. I would never advise women who want children to live together [with a man]’; and from several others, ‘still, there is the question of the children’s future’.
This article puzzles and disturbs me far more than the previous one. It seems to exemplify the core of contradiction that scholars of popular culture have talked about with respect to women’s magazines: the centrality of heterosexuality and marriage paired with explicit discontent and critique of patriarchal structures, the pleasures and intimacies associated with marriage that hint at its ideological attractions counterposed with the betrayal and grief of numerous ‘bad’ marriages. There appears to be a complex acknowledgment of marriage as an economic coping strategy that also becomes a symbol of utopian intimacy. It is possible for readers to identify with the discontent and the pleasure. They may negotiate dominant definitions of the regulation of sexuality in a resistant, troublemaking voice, but they also recover the dominant definition of marriage as optimal when it is not too bad a marriage-the problem is bad practice rather than the concept of marriage itself.
Contradictions and compromises
Beyond this particular article, too, Sananda’s message about marriage is infused with contradictions and compromises. Just a few months before the ‘Marriage versus Living Together’ article is the humorous and nostalgic piece ‘Why it is necessary/urgent (jaruri) to get married’ (30 January 1998) by the male author Parthasarathi Talukdar, which talks about the pleasures of marriage in terms of wedding rituals and bonds of kinship, developing intimacies and sharing life cycle rituals. Brightly coloured folk art illustrates the article, signifying the satisfaction of being associated with allegedly ancient, unchanging and culturally unique traditions. Significantly, the ad facing the article, advertising a jewellery firm, features a young girl bedecked in gold and gems as a bride in waiting, and another smaller picture of her along with some married women, also heavily bejewelled, meant to represent family members. The ad invokes the same nostalgia about the stability and attraction of ‘tradition,’ but it is selling a commodity central to marriages and patriarchal notions of ‘women’s wealth,’ drawing upon the mellowness inspired by the article to sell its product (Gloria Steinem gives examples of similar strategies in western women’s magazines).
On the other hand, there is the letter sent to the rare feature ‘In your ear’ (kaane kaane), an advice column on sexual behaviour (15 January 1999). It purports to come from a 35 year old Bengali woman (anonymous) who describes herself as leading an ‘ordinary domestic’ life as a housewife with two children, married to a man working for a computer agency. She narrates a sexual encounter with her husband’s friend (the two families are described as being very close) who came over when the husband was out of town on work, and characterises herself as remorseful about this one-time episode, contemplating a confession to her husband. The response from the ‘expert’:
I believe it, but it will be very hard to convince your husband that a deviation like that was an accident. An excess of alcohol takes our inhibitions away and creates episodes which we would probably not be part of if we were not high. So be careful about alcohol. And forget that episode as an unfortunate accident. Since it’s not part of an ongoing relationship, turn to lying. The lie will save your husband and family from needless grief. And make sure your husband’s friend does not take further advantage of you based on that episode.
This response, along with numerous columns on legal advice, is part of a pragmatic discourse about marriage. Like other responses to agony columns described by researchers, it appears to conserve dominant cultural norms while being fairly non-judgmental: the ‘actor’ in this ‘crime’ becomes alcohol, while the woman is carefully not blamed directly, and is asked to lie to maintain the seeming stability of the domestic order. The stress on adultery as an accident, a mishap, does not confront the ways in which adultery is viewed as deviant based on the notion that marriage creates exclusive forms of bodily property and particularly marks women’s bodies as sites of purity. That is, there is no explicit feminist critique of the guilt over adultery. And yet, the advice to lie is powerfully subversive even as it is conservative: it reminds the reader that marital bliss based on absolute fidelity and domestic harmony, embodied in the non-desiring, spiritually superior Bengali female body, must continue to operate; but it also validates (and perhaps even encourages) the self-preserving silences of women who do desire in forbidden ways and challenge assumptions about marriage in that culture.
Suspect or subversive?
Along with (and through!) health and shopping tips, political commentary and celebrity gossip, Sananda serves up representations of femininity and sexuality that are both compliant and subversive. Invoking both specific (Bengali) cultural traditions and the idea of the rational, modern self, the magazine satisfies both a wide spectrum of readers and its advertisers. Yet there are contradictions in its style and content which make space for challenges and the expression of discontent. The attempt to package outrageously different or oppositional topics in terms that will fit standards of Bengali cultural modesty usually goes only as far as the acknowledgement of diversity and at best a call to tolerance and understanding. But while loud announcements of seemingly modern and oppositional topics often refer to modest if not conservative analyses, gaps of logic and expressions of discontent within statements that seem overtly culturally prescriptive can be subversive. Moreover, raising questions may in itself prompt readers to interrogate the issue, even if the article itself draws a less than radical conclusion.
To answer the question with which I began, the economic imperatives and cultural expectations that govern the production of Sananda do make it inherently suspect as a feminist space, but its accessibility and normative tone of social consensus also indicate possibilities for creating ideological unease.
Notes
[1] The follow up to the Fourth UN World Conference on Women held in Beijing in 1995.↩
[2] An Indian film that deals with lesbianism.↩
[3] The practice whereby wives in some Hindu communities were expected to sacrifice themselves on the funeral pyres of their husbands.↩
References
Partha Chatterji ‘The Nationalist Resolution of the Women’s Question’. In Recasting Women: Essays in Colonial History ed. Kumkum Sangari and Sudesh Vaid (Kali for Women, 1989)
Dulali Nag ‘Fashion, Gender and the Bengali Middle Class’. Public Culture 3.2, 1991.
Gloria Steinem ‘Sex, Lies and Advertising’. Ms. 1990