Sylvia Plath is a deserved icon of 20th century poetry, so why is it so surprising that a wannabe 21st century icon, albeit of popdom, Lana del Rey, would pose as her for the October Australian Vogue? Well, it is a little tasteless, it seems to us at Eyewear - and oddly counterproductive for a singer-songwriter who claims to have tatooed the names of Nabokov and Whitman on her body (two men, notice, with reps as pervs - as well as genius). How much of the del Rey mythos is false was debated - but the doom-mongering seems a courtship with death too far, once she crosses Sylvia's path. Should we call Ms. del Rey rather Slyvia? No honour is done to the memory of the poems, nor is a reckless homage requested or required. This is sheer usury. Will Lana next pose as Ezry Pound? For now, she is a dross-dresser.
|Lana, Daddy's girl?|