People love to point out Taylor Swift’s Pre-Raphaelite aesthetics—the tragic woman in a river, the soft lighting, the flowing gowns. The Life of a Showgirl leans into that fully, especially in songs like The Fate of Ophelia, where Swift places herself inside a romanticized myth of doomed femininity. But beneath that surface is a deeper visual history—one shaped by feminist artists who used image-making as a tool of reclamation and survival. Whether she says it outright or not, Swift is working with visual strategies built by women artists who demanded control over how they were seen.
Feminist Appropriation and Reclamation
For decades, feminist artists—especially women of color—have taken images produced under male or colonial authority and flipped them from the inside.
- Lorna Simpson fractures archival portraiture to expose how Black women were once catalogued and objectified.
- Carrie Mae Weems, in From Here I Saw What Happened and I Cried, overlays text on ethnographic photographs to return grief, rage, and dignity to images made without consent.
- Mickalene Thomas hijacks European art history, placing glamorous Black women into compositions once reserved for white muses. (below)
- Zanele Muholi uses self-portraiture as resistance, turning the act of being seen into a declaration of queer Black presence.
This is appropriation as a feminist weapon: step inside the frame that tried to define you and rewrite the rules.
When Swift adopts the showgirl persona—a woman glittered and adored, yet tightly controlled—she taps into that tradition. The Life of a Showgirl sparkles with rhinestones, but under that shine is exhaustion, labor, and performance under patriarchy. Tracks like Father Figure and Elizabeth Taylor play with tropes of the muse and diva, slipping between glamour and critique. But unlike artists like Weems or Muholi, Swift does this from inside the cushion of whiteness and institutional validation. Her visibility makes these gestures feel more like pop myth than political resistance—yet it also allows feminist visual strategies to reach millions.
Nan Goldin and Cindy Sherman: Self-Authorship Behind the Curtain
Nan Goldin’s Showgirls photographs (see above) are everything the spotlight tries to hide: women mid-costume change, tired, laughing, complicit in their own performance but fully aware of it. Swift channels that same energy in “Showgirl,” where the applause feels like both victory and burnout. Goldin pulled the curtain back. Swift performs in front of it while letting the cracks show.
Cindy Sherman took it further—turning identity into a revolving stage. In the Untitled Film Stills, she becomes every archetype to reveal how shaky those archetypes are. Swift mirrors this in her promo imagery for Showgirl: ingénue, diva, recluse, martyr—all competing versions of one woman. Like Sherman, she makes femininity feel like a costume that anyone can step into—or step out of.
Why Naming This Lineage Matters
This isn’t about deciding if Swift is “doing feminism right.” It’s about naming the women who built the visual language she now moves through with ease.
Feminist visual authorship didn’t start on album covers. It began in photo collectives, queer archives, and community studios—long before the pop industry cared about agency or self-representation. When Swift reaches for Ophelia or the showgirl, she’s drawing from a visual archive shaped by artists like Goldin, Sherman, Simpson, Weems, Thomas, and Muholi.
And crediting that lineage isn’t just academic—it’s a feminist act.