When a Voice Becomes a Thing: Objectification in Singing

Establishing the Ground

I’ve been dancing around this for a while—wondering whether to lay down a kind of philosophical welcome mat for anyone curious enough to follow my writing. Part of me hesitated (I do love to leap straight into the deep end), but I know I use certain terms—shame, objectification, embodiment—that deserve some unpacking.

So this post is a beginning. Or rather, a bridge.

Over the next few blogs, I’ll share some of the frameworks that have shaped my research and teaching. None of them are fixed. They’re evolving—much like the singers I work with, and like me, as I keep reading, listening, and learning.

These concepts don’t belong to me. But I’ve been holding them up to the light, testing them against real experiences. They’ve helped me understand something about the inner lives of singers—the quiet pressures and unspoken hurts—and I think they might help others, too.

This isn’t about airtight definitions. It’s about naming the waters we’re swimming in—so we can move with a little more awareness, compassion, and maybe even joy.

Let’s begin with one of the biggest and trickiest of them all: objectification.

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Objectification and the Singer: When a Voice Becomes a Thing

Let’s talk about objectification.

It’s a big word. A loaded one. And honestly, it’s not something most singers are taught to think about—but it shows up in subtle, everyday ways. In how we talk about voices. In how singers are treated. In the ways we, as artists, start to treat ourselves.

At its core, objectification means turning a person into a thing. A tool. A product. Something that exists for someone else’s use or judgment. The Oxford Dictionary defines it as “the demotion or degrading of a person… to the status of mere object.” Philosopher Martha Nussbaum breaks this down into seven dimensions—none of them kind. A person might be treated as lacking autonomy, as interchangeable, as breakable, or as undeserving of inner life or feelings.

Sound familiar?

If you’re a singer, chances are you’ve felt at least a whisper of this. Maybe when someone critiques your voice like a faulty product. Or when you’re cast—or passed over—based on a snap judgment about how you “sound like” someone else. Or when your artistry is reduced to technique, as if you’re a vocal machine. These are moments where something deeply human—your voice, your self—is treated like an object.

And it’s not always obvious. Philosopher John Rector describes a spectrum of objectification—from subtle indifference to full-blown dehumanisation. Even something that seems harmless—like calling the voice an “instrument”—can shift the way we’re seen and how we see ourselves. If the voice is just a tool, then where do you go in that equation?

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The Voice as Subject and Object

Of course, singing is strange and wonderful in that it’s both deeply embodied and heard from the outside. It’s physical, emotional, aesthetic, spiritual. It lives in your body, but it reaches into someone else’s ears and heart. It’s you—and not you.

This duality means the voice is always in tension: subject and object. We feel it. Others judge it. And sometimes, in that space between feeling and judgment, something painful creeps in.

Shame.

Psychologist Francis Broucek writes that being treated as an object—not seen, not felt, not honoured—can lead to shame. It’s that hot flush of self-awareness, the sense of being exposed or not enough. For singers, this can show up when our voices are picked apart, when our sound is treated like a commodity, or when we feel we have to contort ourselves to be palatable.

And because the voice is so intimately tied to the body, when the voice is objectified, the person is objectified. It’s not just “my singing isn’t good enough.” It becomes “I’m not good enough.”

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A Relationship, Not a Product

Singing isn’t just sound—it’s relationship. When I sing, I offer something of myself to you. It’s relational. Vulnerable. Human.

But if that offering is met with objectification—if “you” (the listener, the teacher, the industry) treat “me” (the singer) as a thing to be fixed, used, or evaluated—then something breaks. Connection becomes performance. Expression becomes control. And joy? That often disappears first.

That’s why I’m exploring these concepts. Not to be academic for the sake of it—but to name what so many singers feel but don’t always have language for. To suggest that maybe the way we talk about voices—and treat them—needs a rethink. Not just for the sake of pedagogy, but for the well-being of the people who sing.

Because a voice is not a product.

And neither are you.

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