Mannequins in Munich?

Munich Mannequins by Sylvia Plath took me back a couple weeks ago when I was actually in Europe, visiting Germany, the Czech Republic, and Austria. Before my sister and I left for Germany, we were told by a reliable source that German people are known for their stoic nature, and serious disposition. If we were to be obnoxiously loud or too friendly, we would be labeled as rude or weird. Going there, being told that, we saw what we expected. Tourists were easy to spot amongst the natives who were a bit more composed, a bit more reserved. The differentiation may have just been established by preconceived notions, but I guess being set apart put me in the objective standpoint. I could gawk and awe at the new environment, culture, and people; on the outside looking in. It was in this manner that I read this poem.

The first time I read it, I thought it was about a relationship between a woman and a man. The woman, seemed to be describing how their relationship was like the winter, cold and voiceless and based on the ideal of perfection. Reading it a couple times over, I realized that this poem was about a relationship, but between a woman and herself. Her inner being seemed to be addressing her flesh; her appearance.

First she considers the label of perfection as a sterile state of being. Though the menstrual cycle comes every month, there is no purpose because it cannot bear children. Perhaps both literally and figuratively, the speaker talks about perfection as being personified as a woman who cannot produce children, and also telling her outward self that gaining or maintaining perfection would mean not bearing any as well.

Almost as if she is talking to a mirror, she says, “It means: no more idols but me, /Me and you” her inner self telling her reflection that she will not have any image or standard as an idol but herself, just as she is. Then, almost as if to justify the reasons for it, she describes the victims of perfection as mannequins, leaning in Munich in their short-lived loveliness. Between two lively cities, they lean in a morgue, a container for dead-bodies.

The whole poem I pictured all of the strong imagery described, and I could almost feel the cold wind from winter, the screaming silence, and the flat, crisp uniformity of these mannequins. I imagined a seemingly deserted town, with nothing but snow and a couple of footprints here and there as the only evidence of inhabitance. The only lights on are coming from a hotel where these mannequins are mingling, staring at each other as if staring into a mirror. The other, is coming from a small house, where two women are standing face to face, one is talking, the other is voiceless like the snow.