I was determined to understand her essence. I wanted to cut to the quick of this character – to understand her roots, to digest her seemingly simple psychobiography so as to produce a (the) definitive characterization. Which one was the authentic, the accurate Harley Quinn? She could not – must not – be all things, because then, in my eyes, she was nothing – a caricature whose lines were literally and figuratively redrawn to conform to her current storyline.
But she was – is – all things. But that doesn’t make her nothing; it makes her something – an exquisite amalgam of disparate, seemingly inconsonant traits that somehow (often sloppily) coalesce to form the jumble of hopes, fears, choices, regrets, and incoherencies that typify participation in/engagement of the human condition. And thus, I realized that, in the attempt to maintain the popularity of an iconic female character, her newer arbiters instead create a realistic, relatable one. As a result, Harley Quinn is a woman of manifest queerness who, over the course of decades, has struggled to maintain physical and psychological consistency across multiple media; who speaks volumes simply by means of persevering, of identifying, of existing. Certain traits remain fixed; others are fickle features liable to evolve to achieve contextual compatibility with new settings and stories. She is more than the sum of her parts, and in her constant co-opting, she has become a mosaic comprising all of these appropriations as opposed to an embodiment of any one characterization in its entirety.
* * *
“I like your Harley!”
It took me a shamefully long time before I realized that I had, in effect, misheard him – misheard all who had shared this sentiment throughout the convention. They were saying something else entirely.
I like your Harley.
* * *
She dangles from an unseen platform, her body looped around a rope to which she tightly clings. Her classic bodysuit reveals an athletic frame, with thighs thick and muscular –an acrobat. Her arms tuck into her torso, pressed against what appears to be a modest bust. Though her hands remain unseen, she clearly holds a bouquet of balloons; they float just above her, inflated faces of clowns and cats and crying babies mingling with cartoonish cameos of the two most important men in her life. These balloons hover just above her mop of buoyant blonde hair, jester’s cap nowhere to be found – perhaps having fallen in a tricky ascent. Her face is painted its usual white, complete with dark lipstick and a black eye mask. She bites a maroon lip while negotiating her precarious balance, pale blue eyes wide as she gazes at something to the right of the viewer. She may be confused or anxious, but she is also excited, as a slightly upturned corner of her lip subtly belies any fear or trepidation. There is innocence – insecurity – but also strength and confidence. She looks as if she is taking a short pause – allowing herself a breath as she collects her thoughts and formulates her plan – before climbing or leaping or flipping out of frame, releasing her balloons, and landing in the next adventure.
This one is my favorite; I call it simply Harley.
Mark Dos Santos & Julio Real