Why picking between sexuality and substance is a false (and ridiculous) choice
That type of soft power, according to some, means less substance. I disagree.
In a recent biography called Kingmaker, writer Sonia Purnell recasts the story of Pamela Churchill Harriman, a woman who leveraged her charm, magnetism, intelligence–and yes, sexuality–to smooth diplomatic relations between powerful men, extract intelligence, and advance her own knowledge of politics and power. Prior to Purnell’s book, Harriman was known as a social-climbing temptress who might steal your husband. But the book paints a different portrait, one of a complex woman who was highly sophisticated in how she pushed levers of power to change the course of history.
I came away from the book marveling at what a fascinating life this woman led. In her early 20s Harriman participated in Winston Churchill’s World War II decisions by proximity after marrying to Churchill’s son. She went on to have incredibly interesting romances with journalist Edward R. Murrow and politician Averell Harriman. Later in life, Harriman identified Bill Clinton for his political stamina when he was a young governor of Arkansas, developed a PAC to fund Democratic candidates, helped involve NATO in the Bosnian humanitarian crisis, and served as U.S. ambassador to France. All of this happened her sixties and seventies—well past what society might determine as her “sexual prime.”
The book covers so much more than sex: money in politics, women’s friendships, diplomacy, Harriman’s guilt about being a poor mother, her relations with her step-children, and her reflections late in life about the paths not taken, professional and personal. Towards the end of the book, I felt a bit teary reading her reminiscent thoughts of Paris during World War II. Here she was in her seventies, having seen it all, looking back to the beautiful connections and romances she had when everyone thought they might be bombed into oblivion—a deeply human experience that perhaps made her and those around her relish being alive.
But this was not the takeaway for media entrepreneur and writer Tina Brown. In a cynical Substack post called Sunday Read: Sex and Soft Power, The Book Everyone is Reading this Summer, Brown describes meeting Harriman and finding her an “august old trout,” seemingly miffed that Brown’s husband found Harriman “mesmerizing.” Brown concludes her piece with: “The woman who craved so much to be remembered for substance will, sadly, always be remembered for sex.”
Brown’s criticisms about women being known for anything sexual are not singular to Harriman. Brown also interviewed in Bloomberg to say: “I have to say that I’m concerned about American women at the moment. I feel women in America are going through a really invisible time…women of substance keep posing on Instagram as if they’re Kim Kardashian. I’m looking at women who are running big agencies in advertising or who are women of substance and they’re posting pictures of themselves in bikinis and it’s all sort of frothy, it’s ridiculous.”
What’s odd here is that Brown is saying that there is a binary choice between substantive and sexual. In other words, you can’t be substantive if you are sexual. In her Substack subscriber chat, Emily Sundberg brings up a crucial point: what even does the phrase Brown keeps repeating—“women of substance”—mean? Do we usually say “I hope that man has substance!” if we think he is attractive, or if we have heard that he has had sex?
No one questioned Obama’s substance when he was caught shirtless and that photo went viral. Nor did we question Clinton’s substance, even though he had numerous affairs. I wonder how many pondered whether Mark Zuckerberg is a “man of substance” while he dances about in a glittery onesie and posts photos of his wrestling hobby.
Whether we like it or not, we are in an era of influencers, image, self-expression, and the monetization of the self. As Sundberg notes in her subscriber chat, her selfies helped catapult her to one of the most-read new media channels on Substack. Does that make her a woman of less substance, when she is sharing selfies and also capturing business trends and intelligence faster and more effectively than many journalists out there? Or does it make her a savvy operator in an era that wants a personality attached to its information.
If Brown's definition of being a “woman of substance” is to subdue expression of appearance or sexuality, that doesn't sound like liberation—or reality—for women of any age, regardless of whether they are appealing to the male gaze or not.
In a provocative Vogue India essay, writer Ankita Shah celebrates her mother’s recent interest in capturing her own image: “since selfie culture emerged in 2000s, women’s self-documentation has evolved and been scrutinized, revealing a double standard. From cave paintings to Renaissance portraits, humans have always captured their own image. Yet when women do so, they’re swiftly branded as vain.”
And beyond individual freedom to post what one likes, it’s naive to imagine that women can now operate in a world—financially, socially, or politically—that does not involve social media. It is naive to imagine that anyone can operate in the world of social media without sharing something … well, social.
Our society is still, as Pamela Harriman realized, very much still ruled by sex and emotional power. For women and also men, charisma and magnetism is a currency. If women posting bikini photos on Instagram or having fulfilling sexual encounters in a biography means the end of feminism or “being remembered for sex,” then that seems misguided. It forces us into the idea that both substance and sexuality can’t co-exist. That we are somehow maybe equating bikini photos on Instagram to OnlyFans creators like Bonnie Blue dangerously sleeping with hundreds of men a day.
In presenting these false choices, we are flattening and two-dimensionalizing women. We are also muzzling a key part of women’s social expression. This is an expression that is not necessarily only for the male gaze or for financial gain—but as a part of connecting women to one another, and to themselves.
Kingmaker! What a delicious read. As is this post, as is THIS: "What’s odd here is that Brown is saying that there is a binary choice between substantive and sexual. In other words, you can’t be substantive if you are sexual. In her Substack subscriber chat, Emily Sundberg brings up a crucial point: what even does the phrase Brown keeps repeating—“women of substance”—mean? Do we usually say “I hope that man has substance!” if we think he is attractive, or if we have heard that he has had sex?"