In a world gone utterly mad, where the living starve and the dead are stripped bare for profit, we now have the spectacle of Marilyn Monroe’s frocks and face-paint going under the hammer on what would have been her 100th birthday. One hundred years since Norma Jeane Mortenson wriggled into existence, and the vultures are still circling, talons outstretched for a scrap of sequin or a smudge of rouge. The auction house, no doubt staffed by men who look like startled ferrets, estimates the collection will fetch millions.
Millions. For a dress. A dress that once contained the most desired woman of the 20th century, a woman who died alone, probably with a telephone in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other.
But never mind that, chaps. Let’s celebrate her centenary by commodifying her corpse’s fabric. The gowns, the slippers, the compacts of powder that once dusted her nose as she posed for the cameras.
They will be pawed over by oligarchs and pop stars, who will bid sums that could feed a small country, all so they can hang a bit of history in a climate-controlled closet. To be fair, Monroe herself might have found this hilarious. She was, after all, a woman who understood the absurdity of fame, the way it consumes and regurgitates you.
But even she might blanch at the notion of her lipstick being valued higher than a life. The make-up, they say, is “exceptionally rare.” Rare, indeed, like a sane thought in a world of celebrity worship.
The auction will take place at some grand London venue, where attendees will sip champagne and pat each other on the back for their exquisite taste. They will not mention the 1962 death, the overdose, the whispers of Kennedys and Mafia. No, no.
This is a celebration. A celebration of a woman who became an object, now sold as an object. What a fitting tribute.
As I write this, I am tempted to drink a martini in her honour, but I fear I might choke on the irony. So instead, I propose a toast: To Marilyn Monroe, who deserved better. To the bidders, who deserve a thorough kicking.
And to the auction house, which has proven, once again, that the only thing cheaper than a dead star’s dignity is our capacity to ignore it.
