At the moment I'm working on fairy tales, I won't bore you with all the details, but over the past few days my work has been intersecting with my own fairy tale memories from back when I was a little girl. Today the fairy tale seems to have become more of a fetish than a nursery staple. Though the sexual undertones of the tales are now well documented and have been highlighted especially in the work of Angela Carter and co., open the covers of Vogue, and you'll see a new side of the fairy tale. It's kitsch, it's quirky and most importantly, it sells. The modern reception and reinvention of the fairy tale, from a pant-less ginger-bread house-owning Lady Gaga, to a supermodel, Prada clad Little Red Riding Hood, offers visual quirkiness and sex appeal. The post-pubescent woman becomes the pre-pubescent girl, and the message of the fairy tale is displaced into a static visual spectacle which undeniably catches the eye.
My most vivid memories of being told fairy tales are associated with my Grandmother, who read to me from an early age. From a collection of tales by Hans Christian Andersen, I was introduced, tearfully, to the tale of The Little Match Girl, which has remained part of my inner literary fabric since the first time it was read to me. I recall a school assignment from when I was 6 years old - to bring in your favourite story - and the one I brought with me was the tragedy of Andersen's Little Match Girl. While it may not have the glamour or kitschy charm now affiliated with modern takes on Cinderella, Red Riding Hood, or the Princess and the Pea; Andersen's tale of a poor match seller who sees visions as she lights her few remaining matches on a cold winter's night had a depth to it which has remained vivid to me for a good many years.
On an aside, my Grandmother - the teller of this tale - also had a few little rhymes of her own which I'm sure I'll never forget, even though she died a few years ago. She was a nurse during the war, and met my Grandfather (who was in the Navy) while on duty in the hospital when he was taken in for some minor wounds. Though I never met my Grandfather, she would tell me the rhymes he learnt while he was in the Navy - male bonding and all. If ever the family were making a toast, my Grandmother's voice could be heard, as she chirped in with...
'Here's to the girl who wears red shoes,
Likes her beer, and likes her booze!'
And it would always be qualified with this: 'Your Grandfather used to say that ... there was another part that came after, but he would never tell me it, I think it must have been rude.' Remembering this today, a quick Google search revealed the rest of the rhyme. It goes like this (sssssssshhh)...
She's got no cherry,
But that's no sin,
She's still got the box the cherry came it.
He was perhaps right to keep my Grandmother in ignorance.
Images from Vogue.
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