Last Night a DJ-Inspired Eyeshadow Saved My Life

I'm the kind of person who will loiter in Sephora for three hours before abandoning every product because there are more than four people in the checkout line. Or rather, I'll smear a myriad of pigments on the top of my hand, loading up the basket before politely "storming out" (respectfully placing all the items back in their intended places), because I realized none of them will "save me" from some vague iteration of an existential void. The packaging isn't going to make him like-me-like-me, my cheekbones' illuminating glow won't bring anyone back from the dead, and no amount of dewy finish will bring about justice to that bitch from seventh grade that said I'd die a virgin. But this one Friday, I made it to the checkout line and bought Milk Makeup's "Model/DJ" shadow liner.

Shadow liner is basically makeup you can use as either eyeshadow or eyeliner. It comes in several forms; Milk Makeup's version puts brightly-colored pigments into sleek chisel tips. I don't usually fall for names, but I fell for this one: Model/DJ. At first, I sneered at it. The transparency of the marketing was unseemly—this eye shadow's name is trying so hard to convince me that it's cool, but you're not supposed to say you're cool, you're just cool. Or something? But then, like most things, I realized I was wrong. You don't say you're a model/DJ to be cool. You say you're a model/DJ because you're a model/DJ.

The Model/DJ shade is a bright blue teal—a color I never fucked with because a teen girl mag I read when I was eleven called it "trashy." Looking back, I wish I'd exclusively worn blue eyeshadow to show no status quo could hold me down, but the world is an imperfect place. Regardless, I never tried blue eyeshadow until I was nearly 26, manically darting around a dimly lit make up store, smearing this rave-inspired eyeshadow across my eyelids because it had a name that I kept thinking about.

Both "model" and "DJ" are loaded terms, sometimes aggressively bundled with gendered stereotypes. "DJ" is often used derogatorily, with two index fingers doing air-quotes, and, depending on tone, almost interchangeable with "Spotify DJ" or "fake DJ." Because of a saturated market, DJing is dumbed down—everyone is a DJ, so no one is a DJ.

This fuckery also unravels differently depending on gender. If you're a dude DJ, you're probably either mythologized or villainized. And women—as when we do anything, let alone DJing—can be questioned if we're "really" doing it, just pretending to look cool, or trying to "get with" someone. Which legit sucks because DJing actually does require instinct, taste, knowledge, empathy, and technical skill.

Similarly, modeling is often written off as an easy and lucrative option for hot people who can't manage a "better" or more "serious" career. The trivialization gets worse when affiliated with social media, i.e. "Instagram model," as if using social media to further your career is somehow a gauche trick—evidence of being a hack, instead of someone who managed to benefit from social media, an integral part of our lives. The combination of"model/DJ" thus becomes a prime target for sneers, used in the same way "model/actress" was in the 90s: as the set-up to the punchline "mattress." Or worse, the notion that conflating the two titles somehow delegitimizes both—jack of all trades, master of none.

Eventually, the way I viewed this branding resembled my own misguided views of makeup as a teenager. Informed by zero facts and one-hundred percent vague, unspoken pressure from those around me that I was supposed to a) supposed to hate makeup, b) only use makeup in a flawless way that implied I wasn't using makeup, or c) think differently of those who wore heavy makeup. This condescending attitude proved, of course, to be bullshit, and just another guise of judging and controlling mostly women. I learned it was actually important to have the ability to look how you want to look, wear what you want to wear, and put whatever on your face.

When it comes to proper makeup application, there are several prevailing schools of thought. The current movement of natural or "no makeup" looks favor an increasingly more relaxed presentation. Contouring can achieve this style, or, depending on how heavy the application, swing in the other direction—unapologetically embracing that you're wearing makeup, "paint by making ducklips as you follow along a forty-minute YouTube tutorial" style.

Both of these techniques acknowledge a "proper" application of makeup, potentially equating what's flattering with what's conventionally attractive. Rave-inspired products open another door. They tend to come in bright colors and encourage experimental application—trying things out because it's late, dark, and no one cares if your face looks different than how they (or you) want it to look. In other words, rave makeup matches the ethos of the club scene at-large: messiness.

So while the natural look aims to replicate the idea of perfection without exposing the pore-reducing primer behind the curtain, rave-inspired branding not only admits you're wearing makeup, but embraces it, making the whole process empowering. You're (presumably) at a rave, DJing or dancing or waiting in line for the bathroom. There's no way your makeup is going to stay perfect. And honestly, why should it be?

It's nearly impossible for me to feel truly free when I'm worried about my eyeshadow smudging. One of my favorite moments of partying is when the pressure of how makeup (and myself) is supposed to appear breaks down, disintegrating in a hot, humid room packed with other people. As the night goes on, the precision of my look matters less and less. It's not that the gaze suddenly disappears. It's that the experience of the situation causes the lens to change, and something—the overall experience, or your personality shining through—begins to matter more.

So whether someone's DJing in a sweaty underground rave at 3 AM or dancing to that DJ, being messy is just what happens, and integrating that understanding into the way you approach both makeup and partying is only helpful—especially if you're actually working hard in the booth.

Darcie Wilder is a writer based in New York City. Follow her on Twitter if you know what's good for you.