I recently found a collection of photography that was a series of self portraits by an obese woman. There were 44 pictures in all and it struck me as (1) laudable that a woman who's so obviously outside of what's accepted female beauty is forcing people to look at her and then (2) a little embarrassing that I found the series so "laudable." After all being fat isn't winning anyone Nobel prizes.
Part of me is all "good for her. You go girl. Show them that they need to write outside the box for your story." And part of me is "really? Is it necessary to be so provocative in your portraits?"
First, as one who lauds, I have always been an advocate for bringing a voice to marginalized people. These people aren't often looked at and are even less listened to. Ms Davis' collection forces the viewer to look at her.
And as one who cringes, I find Davis' collection of intimate portraits unsettling. She seems to be objectifying herself in the same falsely intimate style that society unfairly does in the first place. We stare both at those who allure us and those who disgust us.
As a praiser I find serious artistic poignancy in the intimacy Davis exhibits in showing herself so bared. And as a cringer I find the intimacy without voice jarring. It's similar to how I feel about Diane Arbus' work. I can't draw my eyes away but am troubled that if I look too long, the image will draw detached disgust out of me. Ultimately I want the marginalized to be heard and not just made a spectacle of.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wild Chives
Out the window there was a graceful tree, flowering in the sunlight. And inside Lola was smiling. The waves on the lake were making white peaks, thrown by the same warm breeze that waved the tree. And Lola was watching the tree, snug up in her bed, smiling. A southern breeze meant spring and in spring there was hope.
In her mind she was pulling on her mud boots and stomping through fields on the watch for new streams. There would be headwaters, born by snow melt and waterfalls with small pools. In the cow pasture she would fling off her boots and splash knee deep in the cold water, chilling her toes. She would be happy. The newness of the spring would wrap around her and lift her up.
In her room Lola lingered between soft sheets. In her mind she wanted to hold the reminder that life can be wild and new.
Outside a siren began its long howl as it moved up the street and a bus rumbled by carrying the morning's first commuters. The rumble shook Lola' room and the little flowering tree outside. And inside Lola thrust her feet onto the cold waiting floor.
In her mind she was pulling on her mud boots and stomping through fields on the watch for new streams. There would be headwaters, born by snow melt and waterfalls with small pools. In the cow pasture she would fling off her boots and splash knee deep in the cold water, chilling her toes. She would be happy. The newness of the spring would wrap around her and lift her up.
In her room Lola lingered between soft sheets. In her mind she wanted to hold the reminder that life can be wild and new.
Outside a siren began its long howl as it moved up the street and a bus rumbled by carrying the morning's first commuters. The rumble shook Lola' room and the little flowering tree outside. And inside Lola thrust her feet onto the cold waiting floor.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Springtime in the city. Birds call.
(Back by popular demand. OK. Back by request of my husband and my sister-in-law.)
Springtime in the city. Birds call.
Vibrant Green on Berry Black
This is the color of spring-time
Light pink petals falling against rows of cars
This is the look of spring-time
Springtime in the city. Birds call.
The Sun streaks across the city,
brushing hillsides and sweeping against
high buildings
Light slants through the shadows of highrises
Diving down to touch heads lifting up from Winter
Laughter tinkles from behind wide sunglasses
Arms and legs stretch out against restaurant patio tables
Soaking up sun and heat and day and Spring.
Springtime in the city. Birds call.
Vibrant Green on Berry Black
This is the color of spring-time
Light pink petals falling against rows of cars
This is the look of spring-time
Springtime in the city. Birds call.
The Sun streaks across the city,
brushing hillsides and sweeping against
high buildings
Light slants through the shadows of highrises
Diving down to touch heads lifting up from Winter
Laughter tinkles from behind wide sunglasses
Arms and legs stretch out against restaurant patio tables
Soaking up sun and heat and day and Spring.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Standing Outside in the Rain
Her clothes were choked with smoke and her throat dry. Her left hand had a pain in it, like a dull ache, and she shook it as she took a long drag of smoke from her cigarette.
The pain was heavy in her chest this time. The dull ache. She sucked in her cheeks and bit the side of her lip. She should have worn more dressy clothes, at least some heels, she thought.
And now they were inside laughing, at the hotel bar ordering $12 drinks. She had been so proud of herself, her self control, not ordering some over-priced drink to help her laugh at the jokes and be more careless. Instead, she'd excused herself and gone outside. To think and look at the rain falling across the streetlight.
She loved that. She could get caught up in the way the street lamp's light hit the drops as they fell down and down. She could get caught up in it and not worry about the anxiety of impressing these people. Her new boyfriend's best friends.
They were so nice and so beautiful and so successful. They had been in frats and sororities. They wore designer jeans and the girls all slung designer purses over their shoulders. They owned their own homes and stayed at houses on the "lake" with private swimming pools.
She sighed, pushed out her cigarette and brushed the hair from her face. She was wearing her favorite corduroys, a tight t-shirt and the expensive cashmere coat she'd splurged on. At least she had the coat to protect her, to shield her from judgement.
She tightened the coat around her body and walked inside.
The pain was heavy in her chest this time. The dull ache. She sucked in her cheeks and bit the side of her lip. She should have worn more dressy clothes, at least some heels, she thought.
And now they were inside laughing, at the hotel bar ordering $12 drinks. She had been so proud of herself, her self control, not ordering some over-priced drink to help her laugh at the jokes and be more careless. Instead, she'd excused herself and gone outside. To think and look at the rain falling across the streetlight.
She loved that. She could get caught up in the way the street lamp's light hit the drops as they fell down and down. She could get caught up in it and not worry about the anxiety of impressing these people. Her new boyfriend's best friends.
They were so nice and so beautiful and so successful. They had been in frats and sororities. They wore designer jeans and the girls all slung designer purses over their shoulders. They owned their own homes and stayed at houses on the "lake" with private swimming pools.
She sighed, pushed out her cigarette and brushed the hair from her face. She was wearing her favorite corduroys, a tight t-shirt and the expensive cashmere coat she'd splurged on. At least she had the coat to protect her, to shield her from judgement.
She tightened the coat around her body and walked inside.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Detroit
City of construction, destruction, woe
City of the Automobile, the wheel, the wheeling
Executives wing the sky, slice, pull it down
Wrap themselves in bail-outs; vodka and cavier
Like Russian Barons, barren of thrift
Place of ghettos and grosse pointe
Snaked by Lake St. Clair
Driven by debt and Progress
Immigrated to and emigrated from
Stalwart, stodgy, steeped, stewed
Rocky wreckage
Bailing itself with barrels
Barreling towards the oblivious
Peopled and prospered
An American town.
City of the Automobile, the wheel, the wheeling
Executives wing the sky, slice, pull it down
Wrap themselves in bail-outs; vodka and cavier
Like Russian Barons, barren of thrift
Place of ghettos and grosse pointe
Snaked by Lake St. Clair
Driven by debt and Progress
Immigrated to and emigrated from
Stalwart, stodgy, steeped, stewed
Rocky wreckage
Bailing itself with barrels
Barreling towards the oblivious
Peopled and prospered
An American town.
New Direction
I've decided to take my blog in a different direction by posting works of fiction, poetry and short non-fiction. Hopefully I'll have some new posts up shortly.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Inaugural Post
To begin,
Blogs are something I read everyday, for work and to catch up with family and friends. I would even include myself in the list of people who've done cyber surveillance on old friends. In fact, I think this reconnecting with people from times gone can be one of the most useful purposes of the social media. At the same time, because of what I do, I recognize that blogs and social networks and other social media can be really good for other things as well, (like things that make money :-)) promoting and marketing and workplace efficiency. But I think the thing social media does best is the way it connects people . This can be both good and bad. I've seen this manifest itself through the visceral attacks people write and also in the way childhood friends reconnect. But lately I have been left with the feeling that while social media can connect us, these connections are weak. If anything, I think social media makes us feel less guilt about not calling our Facebook friends. We are allowed to "keep up with them" by reading their blogs or status postings, looking at their photographs, without really deeply connecting like we would over dinner or a nice phone call.
Please don't misunderstand me though. I don't think we should try and deeply connect with all 200 of our friends on Facebook, I am just saying that we need to recognize social media's communications for what they are: superficial connections. Meaningful? Purposeful? Yes. Just not deeply personal in the way that a cup of coffee can turn into a teary conversation or a pint can turn into remembering the "good olde days."
Maybe that is already obvious to other people. I just don't want to overstate why I've started a blog. I just want to begin in full recognition of this medium's limiations.
In summation,
I am hoping this blog is a way for those near and far to know more about what I've been thinking and at the same time give me a chance to release some pent up musings. A long time ago, when I was just a child, I really earnestly wanted to be a writer. So in some ways this blogging is my childish, egotistical desire to be read.
Cheers.
Blogs are something I read everyday, for work and to catch up with family and friends. I would even include myself in the list of people who've done cyber surveillance on old friends. In fact, I think this reconnecting with people from times gone can be one of the most useful purposes of the social media. At the same time, because of what I do, I recognize that blogs and social networks and other social media can be really good for other things as well, (like things that make money :-)) promoting and marketing and workplace efficiency. But I think the thing social media does best is the way it connects people . This can be both good and bad. I've seen this manifest itself through the visceral attacks people write and also in the way childhood friends reconnect. But lately I have been left with the feeling that while social media can connect us, these connections are weak. If anything, I think social media makes us feel less guilt about not calling our Facebook friends. We are allowed to "keep up with them" by reading their blogs or status postings, looking at their photographs, without really deeply connecting like we would over dinner or a nice phone call.
Please don't misunderstand me though. I don't think we should try and deeply connect with all 200 of our friends on Facebook, I am just saying that we need to recognize social media's communications for what they are: superficial connections. Meaningful? Purposeful? Yes. Just not deeply personal in the way that a cup of coffee can turn into a teary conversation or a pint can turn into remembering the "good olde days."
Maybe that is already obvious to other people. I just don't want to overstate why I've started a blog. I just want to begin in full recognition of this medium's limiations.
In summation,
I am hoping this blog is a way for those near and far to know more about what I've been thinking and at the same time give me a chance to release some pent up musings. A long time ago, when I was just a child, I really earnestly wanted to be a writer. So in some ways this blogging is my childish, egotistical desire to be read.
Cheers.
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