The Liberator

There was a documentary at Venice in 2013 about Femen—the Ukrainian feminist protest group known for bare-chested demonstrations—and what it revealed was ugly enough to feel inevitable. Viktor Svyatski, the man who founded the movement, was captured on film giving the women detailed instructions on how to act, dictating every step and every statement with near-military precision. He screamed at them. He humiliated them. He reminded them of the money he’d paid them. And on camera, several of the women admitted to feeling dependent, frightened, trapped—one used the words "slave" and "Stockholm syndrome."

The movement that had made its name protesting male exploitation of women had been, from the beginning, a vehicle for one man’s appetite for control. The visual language of female liberation—bare bodies, defiance, spectacle—had been designed by someone who wanted access to bodies and spectacle.

I remember following Femen with that specific uncomfortable mix of sympathy for the stated politics and unease about the imagery. Something had always felt off. It usually does when the frame of liberation is handed to you by someone with a different agenda entirely.