It was a scene of pure, urban poetry. As a sudden downpour lashed a public square, dozens of pedestrians made a dash for the nearest shelter: the billowing, stainless-steel skirt of a giant Marilyn Monroe.
For a few minutes, the iconography was turned on its head. The very same skirt that once caused a cinematic frisson in The Seven Year Itch was now serving as a communal umbrella. Laughter replaced leers; selfies captured shared respite, not a salacious glimpse. The image of a woman, so often dissected for her vulnerability, became a literal shield. It was beautiful. And it perfectly exposes the exhausting contradiction of our modern sensibilities.
Because, let’s be frank, that same statue has been branded “indecent,” “sexist,” and a public endorsement of “up-skirting.” The controversy, which has followed this sculpture from Palm Springs to its current home, argues that forcing viewers to look up her skirt reduces Marilyn to a mere sex object, trampling over the serious artist she longed to be.
But one must ask: who is really reducing her here?
Are we, the public, so fragile that we cannot hold two thoughts in our heads at once? Can we not see both the playful, empowered glamour of a woman seizing a moment of cinematic magic and the tragic figure behind the icon? The statue freezes a second of joyful, unapologetic movement. To see only exploitation in it says more about our own lens than the artist’s intent or Marilyn’s own performance.
A clip from Billy Wilder’s The Seven Year Itch
The call for the statue’s removal, dressed in the language of protection, feels less like feminism and more like a puritanical reflex. It presumes malice where there was once mirth. It insists that because some might see something seedy, the image must be censored for all. It forgets that Marilyn herself was the architect of that scene – a master of her own image who understood the power of suggestion and charm.
The rain offered us a clearer view. In that moment, the public didn’t see a victim. They saw a saviour with a brilliant smile and a perfectly timed skirt. They saw a piece of art that had broken free from the gallery wall and the tedious debates to serve a human purpose: community and shelter.
So, before we rush to tear down the statues that offend our newly calibrated sensitivities, perhaps we should pause. The question isn’t whether the statue of Marilyn is sexist. The real question is whether our relentless criticism has made us incapable of seeing joy, art, and simple utility without first searching for the scandal.
Perhaps the most revolutionary act is to simply let the memory be – to sometimes look up, smile, and just be grateful for the cover.
