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Venus on Wheels: Two Decades of Dialogue on Disability, Biography, and Being Female in America
In 1976 Gelya Frank began writing about the life of Diane DeVries, a woman born with all the physical and mental equipment she would need to live in our society--except arms and legs. Frank was 28 years old, DeVries 26. This remarkable book--by turns moving, funny, and revelatory--records the relationship that developed between the women over the next twenty years. An empathic listener and participant in DeVries's life, and a scholar of the feminist and disability rights movements, Frank argues that Diane DeVries is a perfect example of an American woman coming of age in the second half of the twentieth century. By addressing the dynamics of power in ethnographic representation, Frank--anthropology's leading expert on life history and life story methods--lays the critical groundwork for a new genre, "cultural biography."
Challenged to examine the cultural sources of her initial image of DeVries as limited and flawed, Frank discovers that DeVries is gutsy, buoyant, sexy--and definitely not a victim. While she analyzes the portrayal of women with disabilities in popular culture--from limbless circus performers to suicidal heroines on the TV news--Frank's encounters with DeVries lead her to come to terms with her own "invisible disabilities" motivating the study. Drawing on anthropology, philosophy, psychoanalysis, narrative theory, law, and the history of medicine, Venus on Wheels is an intellectual tour de force.
Challenged to examine the cultural sources of her initial image of DeVries as limited and flawed, Frank discovers that DeVries is gutsy, buoyant, sexy--and definitely not a victim. While she analyzes the portrayal of women with disabilities in popular culture--from limbless circus performers to suicidal heroines on the TV news--Frank's encounters with DeVries lead her to come to terms with her own "invisible disabilities" motivating the study. Drawing on anthropology, philosophy, psychoanalysis, narrative theory, law, and the history of medicine, Venus on Wheels is an intellectual tour de force.
320 pages, Paperback
First published April 30, 2000
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
July 27, 2023
‘Venus on Wheels: Two Decades of Dialogue on Disability’ is an ethnographic text published in 2000 by Gelya Frank. This book encompasses just under 25 years of the professional collaboration and personal relationship between Frank and Diane DeVries, a woman born without arms and legs. Much of the ethnography centres around the evolution of this relationship which, whilst I didn't expect this, isn't necessarily a bad thing.
In Frank's retrospective re-telling of their friendship, Diane begins as an object of speculation, to which societal expectations and life goals are projected onto her assumed incapability of her visibly disabled body. In the intermediate part of this ethnography, Frank’s own prejudices, and how they underlie her friendship with Diane, are interrogated. Through Frank’s eyes, Diane is defined by the visual and corporeal abnormity of her body. Frank’s perception of Diane is blunt, uncomfortable and ugly. By the end of the ethnography, Diane is situated more so as an equal to Frank, where the potential for intimacy within their relationship is divulged.
However, I have to be honest. I really struggled with this ethnography. I am conflicted by its framing, its literary descriptions and the ultimate purpose served/’lessons learned'. Frank’s hypersexualisation of Diane throughout this ethnography feels unnecessary and, surprisingly, unreflexive. Frank’s perception of Diane always leads back to sex – whether she can masturbate, the cruelly described ‘sexual inadequacy’ of her ‘flippers’ (where her disability is compared to an ineffectual pinball machine), and, in the final phase of their friendship, she has been bestowed the title of sexual equal – she is finally the object of desire, rather than disgust! [note: sarcasm].
Reading some of Frank’s descriptions felt like being watched under the male gaze – where Diane’s worth was calculated based on her attractiveness. It’s like a gender-bended, domestic equivalent of Malinowski’s field notes. Retrospectively, I don’t think the issue lies in Frank’s internalised ableism. As mentioned earlier, she is painfully honest. Probably more honest than I could bring myself to be. What I find incredibly jarring is the overarching sexual framing of Diane. This sexual framing never seems to be recognised, which has the subsequent effect of normalising it as an innate and objective framing. And it is a shame, as an intersectional analysis of gender and disability could have led to far more fruitful reflexive moments. I want to know more about Diane outside of her sensual affect on other people.
Perhaps the shortcomings of this ethnography are that it was written, in my opinion, to serve and subvert the expectations of an able-bodied audience. Diane is ultimately integrated into the hypersexualisation of women – the overarching message seems to be an oxymoronic egalitarian cry of ‘disabled women can be objectified, too!’ [which, duh, disabled women have been fetishised for centuries]. By contemporary standards, I just don’t think this ages particularly well. But I do wish that there were more subversive attempts to give Diane narrative authority. Or that this ethnography could do more to serve and represent the disabled community.
This is definitely an anthropology of disability, and not disability anthropology.
In Frank's retrospective re-telling of their friendship, Diane begins as an object of speculation, to which societal expectations and life goals are projected onto her assumed incapability of her visibly disabled body. In the intermediate part of this ethnography, Frank’s own prejudices, and how they underlie her friendship with Diane, are interrogated. Through Frank’s eyes, Diane is defined by the visual and corporeal abnormity of her body. Frank’s perception of Diane is blunt, uncomfortable and ugly. By the end of the ethnography, Diane is situated more so as an equal to Frank, where the potential for intimacy within their relationship is divulged.
However, I have to be honest. I really struggled with this ethnography. I am conflicted by its framing, its literary descriptions and the ultimate purpose served/’lessons learned'. Frank’s hypersexualisation of Diane throughout this ethnography feels unnecessary and, surprisingly, unreflexive. Frank’s perception of Diane always leads back to sex – whether she can masturbate, the cruelly described ‘sexual inadequacy’ of her ‘flippers’ (where her disability is compared to an ineffectual pinball machine), and, in the final phase of their friendship, she has been bestowed the title of sexual equal – she is finally the object of desire, rather than disgust! [note: sarcasm].
Reading some of Frank’s descriptions felt like being watched under the male gaze – where Diane’s worth was calculated based on her attractiveness. It’s like a gender-bended, domestic equivalent of Malinowski’s field notes. Retrospectively, I don’t think the issue lies in Frank’s internalised ableism. As mentioned earlier, she is painfully honest. Probably more honest than I could bring myself to be. What I find incredibly jarring is the overarching sexual framing of Diane. This sexual framing never seems to be recognised, which has the subsequent effect of normalising it as an innate and objective framing. And it is a shame, as an intersectional analysis of gender and disability could have led to far more fruitful reflexive moments. I want to know more about Diane outside of her sensual affect on other people.
Perhaps the shortcomings of this ethnography are that it was written, in my opinion, to serve and subvert the expectations of an able-bodied audience. Diane is ultimately integrated into the hypersexualisation of women – the overarching message seems to be an oxymoronic egalitarian cry of ‘disabled women can be objectified, too!’ [which, duh, disabled women have been fetishised for centuries]. By contemporary standards, I just don’t think this ages particularly well. But I do wish that there were more subversive attempts to give Diane narrative authority. Or that this ethnography could do more to serve and represent the disabled community.
This is definitely an anthropology of disability, and not disability anthropology.
March 31, 2009
I was disappointed with this book. I wasn't expecting it to be like a textbook with psychobabble, footnotes and references to other similiar works. I think that even for an academic text, 'Venus on Wheels' is weak because the author injects too much of herself into the narrative. You have to read about the author's hidden disabilities, her bisexuality and her analysis of why she was interested in Diane DeVries. I seriously could care less. I was interested in Diane DeVries journey as a woman with a disability. I skipped huge chunks of text just trying to follow Diane's life story. I hope Diane writes a solo autobiography soon.
August 23, 2011
If you're interested in the ethnographer's reflections and feel they are imperative to the understanding of the person who is being studied, then you will have no problem with this book. However, Frank certainly spends a good deal of time on her own issues, to the point that sometimes it feels as though devries's issues are lost. A quick, interesting read nonetheless.
March 24, 2012
This is both an engaging and deeply theorized book that could be useful in an anthropology or cultural studies methods class or as an introduction to disability studies or part of a general survey in women's studies. While the overall narrative addresses theory and methods, much of the theoretical discussion is in the footnotes, which are excellent.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews