London, you glorious, gin-soaked burg of cultural vultures, have finally done it. You've bought a dead woman's underwear. The Victoria and Albert Museum, that mausoleum of tasteful taxidermy and looted silks, has secured the rights to auction off Marilyn Monroe's earthly remains. Not her actual remains you understand, though I wouldn't put it past them to have a toe in formaldehyde somewhere. No, we're talking about the 'rare collection' of frocks, frills, and frankly terrifyingly tiny frocks that once contained the pneumatic goddess of 1950s celluloid.
This is the centenary of Monroe's birth, and what better way to honour a woman who died tragically young, probably from a cocktail of barbiturates and botched patriarchy, than to turn her wardrobe into a bloody marketplace? The V&A, with the solemnity of a bishop blessing a baccarat table, has announced it will 'secure' these items. Secure them from whom? From the dirty hands of us common ghouls who might want to sniff the armpits of a dress that whispered secrets to the cameras? Or secure them from the ever-diminishing pool of auction houses who see dollar signs in a pair of her gloves?
Let's be clear: this is not art. This is the fetishisation of a tragedy. We worship Monroe not for her talent, which was real and undervalued, but for her vulnerability. She was a woman so luminous that she burned herself out, and now we collect her ashes in the form of a beaded gown. The V&A is essentially a very polite, government-funded version of a celebrity stalker. 'Look, curator Timothy, a hairpin! Let's put it under UV glass and write a pamphlet.'
But let's not be churlish. There's a grim, capitalist poetry to it. Monroe herself was a product, manufactured by a studio system that ground her down. Now her after-market value is being 'secured' by an institution that exists to legitimise the whims of the rich. It's the circle of life as written by a hedge fund manager with a history degree.
I imagine the auction itself. A room full of people who have never worried about a gas bill, bidding on a dress that Monroe probably wore while crying into a champagne glass. The winner will likely drape it over a spare chaise longue in their second home, telling dinner party guests, 'That's the dress from The Seven Year Itch. You know, the one where the subway grate...' And everyone will nod, because that's what you do when confronted with the ghost of a woman who was never allowed to be just a person.
The V&A, of course, frames this as a cultural triumph. 'Securing her legacy,' they intone. But legacy is not something you secure in a climate-controlled box. Legacy is what happens when a young girl in Wolverhampton watches Some Like It Hot and decides she can be funny and beautiful and flawed all at once. You don't need a museum for that. You need a decent television and a VHS player.
So raise a glass of warm gin to Marilyn, the patron saint of exploited starlets. The V&A has your knickers, but we'll never have your laugh. And that, you curators of the soul, is priceless.
