There are many ways to become famous. Bianca Censori has chosen one of the worst

Step aside Sisyphus, Icarus, Narcissus. Move over Oedipus, Nemesis, Spartacus. Gather round, children. I’ll tell you a little-known Greek myth about a beautiful but weirdly silent Australian architect graduate and collagen enthusiast, who angered the gods of excess and Instagram and was sentenced to an underwear-free existence alongside the world’s foremost bin liner-wearing misogynist, a man who routinely put the rap in claptrap.

Our antiheroes are Kanye Westus and his wife Bianca Censorius (although for the purposes of this discussion we’ll go with their performing names, Kanye West and Bianca Censori). The story has a working title of “All The Embarrassing Things You Have To Do When You Decide To Hitch Your Wagon To A Sexist, Antisemitic Misanthrope In An Audacious Bid To Achieve Fame At All Costs”. Hmmm. It’s possible the working title needs some, well, work.

Kanye West with Bianca Censori on their infamous boat trip in Venice.Credit: YouTube

Our story harkens back to the seventh day of the 12th month on the Kardashian calendar, in the year 2022, after West, a self-described “God vessel”, emerged backlit, having shrugged off the shackles of his marriage to Kim Kardashian and a short-lived US presidential run. From there, he went forth and debuted his new relationship with Censori in the manner of all good biblical figures: by dropping a new track called Censori Overload and declaring war on all “Karens”. (His lyrics need work, incidentally. Rhyming “parents” and “glance”? Who got that one past the censoris? I mean, censors.)

Meanwhile, Kanye. Like the late singer Prince, he was said to prefer a range of other nicknames, although he did break some new ground in this realm, in that his favourites (Ye, Yeezy, Yeezus) all sounded like the noise an old man makes when he’s just about to complete a particularly wet sneeze.

In recent times, he’s parlayed (someone else’s) partial nudity into his rap career. He’s taken disgraceful shots at Jewish people, fetishised blonde gay women, endorsed Donald Trump and described himself as “Shakespeare in the flesh” (presumably the original Shakespeare got there first).

For all this, though, the gods were surprisingly tolerant of West. Last month he briefly overtook Taylor Swift as the most-streamed artist on Spotify globally, although the sudden surge of interest coincided with the release of his new album and came off the back of the antisemitic statements that resulted when someone let him out in public without a muzzle.

Censori, uncensored, in her possum remains.Credit: Instagram

All of which leads us to Censori. It’s impossible to know what she did to incur the wrath of the gods, such that earlier this year she was seen walking around in public wearing a stuffed toy for a top, or, as the “fashion philosophy” outlined on her website would have it, “consistently pushing boundaries and favouring unconventional cuts”.

She called it “avant-garde”; everywhere else it’s called “grounds for a charge of indecent exposure”. After her beloved took to social media to decree there would be “no pants this year”, she was photographed wearing an elephant’s knee-hi on her head, with the remains of an ill-fitting possum stretched around her chest. To her credit, even she looked sceptical about that one.

And then there was the small matter of the couple’s boat trip in Venice, where Censori was photographed performing a sex act on West. Which he brag-rapped about later. Naturally.

In times gone by, such rampant exhibitionism might’ve resulted in a much-needed intervention involving a designer straitjacket and a discreet sanitarium, but those nefarious gods knew what they were doing. In these socially enlightened times, they reasoned, nobody would dare question Censori’s decision to knock boots with a man of colour who had been open about his bipolar disorder.

Censori herself rarely said anything and, other than the odd (alleged) intervention staged by her (unnamed) friends, reported by a number of (unspecified) sources, the coverage of her non-coverage veered from the sublimely stupid (she’s claiming ownership of her femininity by putting the suffering in suffragette!) to the ridiculous (anything Kanye has said about her, ever).

And that, dear children, brings us to the (a)moral of this Greek myth: if you long for fame at any cost, be sure to keep the gods onside. Otherwise they’ll fill your wardrobe with see-through tops and make you the muse of a tracksuit-wearing clown. But if, at any stage, you get second thoughts – if you wake up one morning with a burning need for underwire and anything with sleeves – don’t bother appealing to the gods for a do-over. They’ll be busy on their iPhones, doom-scrolling on TikTok and tallying up their number of likes on Instagram. Your fate will be sealed forevermore. Just as surely as the sun will set in the west.

Michelle Cazzulino is a Sydney writer.