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Cultural theorist Sadie Plant, generally regarded as the mother of cyberfeminism proper, argued that men had everything to lose from the new technics of cyberspace and digitality. Her adherents are perhaps less idealistic, though still easily written off as techno-utopian. “Cyborg imagery can suggest a way out of the maze of dualisms in which we have explained our bodies and our tools to ourselves,” Haraway muses. Haraway’s decidedly third-wave views, informed by the idea that “there is nothing about being ‘female’ that inherently binds women,” attempt to morph reductive, binary notions of gender into logical values between and beyond the 0–1 spectrum. As long as the body is an immaterial idea, its likeness is malleable and uploadable and potentially indomitable. Her famous “Cyborg Manifesto,” written in 1983 for the Socialist Review, maps the modern female identity onto a surprising and irregular definition of the cyborg: “creatures simultaneously animal and machine who populate worlds ambiguously natural and crafted…a creature in a post-gender world.” Haraway’s “cyborg” embodies the notion that, when it comes to identity, womanhood is hybridized into simultaneously everything and nothing. In some instances, women were even compared to computer software.ĭonna Haraway championed cyberfeminism before it formally existed. The elusive, computerized feminine would slip through the fingers of her subjugators and re-form on top of them. With the rise of Web-based subcultures, online role-playing, Net art, mass-market gaming, and digital avatars, the argument went, the conventional aspects of female identity would scatter online, deconstructing and restructuring IRL (“in real life”) power dynamics. In the early 1990s, which saw a rush of optimism spurred by the fresh face of infinite cyberspace, cyberfeminists contended that this space would bring about an infinity of ways to reimagine femininity and power. Where everything is possible, we see our desires reflected most minutely. A Facebook advertisement for Chase Bank’s “Freedom Unlimited” credit card features an open-mouthed white man pressing a virtual-reality headset to his face. It’s estimated that by the end of 2016, some 2 million VR headsets will be sold by 2025, that number could reach 122 million. Oculus Rift, HTC Vive, PlayStation VR, and Samsung Gear VR-head-mounted hardware that delivers virtual-reality media-are valued in the millions (recently, The New York Times referred to the virtual-reality industry as a “gold rush”). In Unity-Chan! Candy Rock Star Live Stage, a dancing, bikini-clad anime girl teases users with her swirling lengths of blond hair. VR Roller Coaster simulates the eponymous thrill ride, while, in Adrift, gamers navigate the remains of an exploded space station. Everest VR guides users to the summit of the forbidding mountain. It may be that VR technologies are the apotheosis of the capitalist commodity: pliant enough to entertain every desire unreal enough to maintain a certain level of hunger and produced, for the most part, by and for white men.
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In VR, a user is the vantage point in an immersive world in which, VR developers insist, he or she may see reality through the eyes of the other, or at least in a fresh context. Although the term “virtual reality” wasn’t coined until 1987, Dick’s inflated corporation, peddling the immersive girlfriend experience to the masses, was no science-fiction caprice. The on-call digital woman can be poured into the 360-degree view of any virtual-reality headset, where, operating entirely at the user’s behest, she is emotional putty. His wife at the time-the third of five-had exiled him to a country shack to do his writing, where, alone with a few head of sheep and cows, Dick “would have loved to see Barbie-or Perky Pat or Connie Companion-show up at the door.”Ĭyberspace is accommodating to such fantasies. “Actually you sort of have to have faith to believe in it.” Years later, Dick explained that he came up with the idea for Perky Pat Layouts while watching his daughters play Barbie. “It hardly exists,” she demurs, referring to the bikini. Call up Pat pronto!” Sam-now-Walt obliges, informing Pat that they’re going to the beach and that she should wear the swimsuit he likes best. Make use of your time of translation, buddy boy. Walt’s eyes focus on a note tacked to the wall: “ This is an illusion. After entering this avatar, the novel’s protagonist awakens as Walt, dressed in an Italian-made shirt and furnished with a brand-new Jaguar XXB. In Dick’s novel, users “translate” themselves into virtual-reality “layouts,” where they exercise agency over their hard-bodied avatars in a state of dreamlike bliss.