© 2017 by Erica Ciccarone

  • Twitter App Icon

Three years ago, I spent my first Christmas with Tony. Even though we’d only been together for three months and I hadn’t expressed any interest in the domestic arts, his mom bought me a sewing machine. When I moved to Nashville the previous summer, I’d brought a hamper full of clothes that needed mending. Blouses without buttons and pants without hems had been piling up since 2008. Now I had no excuse.

In college, when my best friend and I marched in a Washington rally for women's right to choose, I didn't expect we'd each choose so differently a decade later. 

Many of us, male and female, have been critical of the portrayal of women in the HBO adaptation of Martin's novels. Showrunners David Benioff and D.B. Weiss have in many ways produced a wonderful adaptation of Martin's 4,200 pages (and counting). But rather than take a cue from Martin and write dynamic female characters, they go for shock value: tits and ass and rape around every corner.

The series began with the X Housewife Drafts, iPhone pictures taken by the artist in her bathroom mirror. She twists a measuring tape around her head, fans several mousetraps across her forehead like a hand of cards. A bouquet of light bulbs springs from her ear. 

Please reload