Ye didn’t win a Grammy, but he still stole the show—not with music, but with an image.

On the red carpet, his wife, Bianca Censori, let a full-length fur drop, revealing a sheer slip that covered nothing. Is she…? Is there…? Unsmiling, with slicked-back hair, she turned, exposing her back to the cameras. Beside her, Ye stood motionless—black sunglasses, black T-shirt, diamond chain—like a silent enforcer.

Meanwhile, Beyoncé took home Album of the Year and Country Album of the Year. Doechii won Hip-Hop Album of the Year. Charli XCX brought her Brat Club energy. And yet, the number one trending topic on wasn’t any of them. It was Bianca Censori.

Her image spread like wildfire. was flooded with debates—was she oppressed? Empowered? Art? A symptom of something worse? A friend texted me a photo with just one line: “This feels like abuse.”

And it does.

Because whatever Censori was selling, we weren’t buying. Or rather, whatever Ye was selling—which in this case was publicity for his Grammy-nominated song Carnival, in which he brags, in his usual way, about his partner’s sexual skills. Ye, as the engineer of a moment, meant to seize attention. Censori’s body—perfected, waxed, sculpted—wasn’t just on display; it was being presented. And in a world where power is increasingly visual, that spectacle meant more than the music.

Does This Look Like Autonomy?

Some might argue that Censori’s look was a bold, empowering choice—a woman in control of her own image. But that argument asks us to ignore the obvious: a fully clothed man standing beside a woman stripped bare.

Nudity is one of the oldest visual markers of submission, especially when only one person is exposed. In this case, the contrast wasn’t just striking—it was designed. Ye’s security-guard-meets-kingpin aesthetic, unreadable expression, and rigid posture showed us that he wasn’t reacting to Censori. He wasn’t with her. He was presenting her.

Before Ye, Censori was a relatively unknown architect working for his brand. Her public persona began when she became his companion. have spoken about how he dictated their wardrobes, demanding complete control over their aesthetic.

Then there’s Carnival, the song for which Ye was nominated—a track with pornographic, objectifying lyrics that make it clear what kind of spectacle we were really watching.

Master? Maybe that’s too strong a word. But the dynamic is unmistakable: one person fully covered, powerful, impassive; the other stripped down, silent, available. A display. A possession.

Beauty as Submission and a Uniform of Domination

We tell ourselves style is personal expression, but in our visual culture, style can also be a uniform. A performance. A way to signal control.

The men who shape culture and politics today aren’t just powerful—they are optimized… have reshaped themselves—thicker hair, leaner frames, sharper jawlines. These aren’t just personal choices. They’re signals. One could even say they look as if they’ve engaged in a fair amount of gender affirming care: bro to superbro.

Ye’s performance of dominance isn’t so different. He is playing from the same script as the right-wing media personalities who celebrate an idealized vision of beauty and power—one that rewards conformity, control, and submission. When Victoria Kjaer Theilvig, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed bombshell from Denmark was crowned Miss Universe 2024, weighed in first, deeming Miss Universe worthy of his praise:.

Donald Trump Jr. followed, declaring victory: “Biological & objectively attractive women are allowed to win beauty pageants again. WE ARE SO BACK.”

It wasn’t about her. It was about reasserting control. About making it clear that beauty—like power—belongs to those who conform, and that dominance belongs to those who gaze upon her.

And the internet, as always, played along.

TikTok debates Censori’s body. Plastic surgeons stitch side-by-side comparisons. The algorithm rewards all of it. And in the process, a simple truth gets buried: the more we fixate on the spectacle, the more we submit to it.

What Are We Really Looking At?

After Ye and Censori’s publicity stunt, hip-hop artist Doechii made history as the third woman to win the Grammy for Best Hip-Hop Album. “Authenticity wins,” she said in an interview after the show. And authenticity infused every beat of her . But this was no passive unveiling; every move was hers. Rapping her own lyrics, executing choreography of her own design, she radiated confidence, energy, and the electrifying power of an artist carving her own path.

But according to Google Trends the next day, the biggest spectacle of the night wasn’t about music at all. It was a silent, still image: a woman stripped bare, standing next to a man in dark sunglasses, as if to say, Look. But don’t hurt me. And don’t ask who made this choice.

Jessie Candlin is a culture writer and high school English teacher who taught over 1,000 teenagers in New York City during the digital revolution. She currently lives in Maharashtra, India.

The opinions expressed in this article are the writer’s own.