Monday, 28 March 2011

Dumb Blonde 2010

A film I made last year in response to feminist theorist Sandra Lee Bartky: 
"Women are no longer required to be chaste or modest, to restrict their sphere of activity to the home, or even to realize their properly feminine destiny in maternity: Normative femininity is coming more and more to be centered on woman’s body – not its duties and obligations or even its capacity to bear children, but its sexuality, more precisely, its presumed heterosexuality and its appearance. There is, of course, nothing new in women’s preoccupation with youth and beauty. What is new is the growing power of the image in a society increasingly oriented toward the visual media. 
Since it is women themselves who practice this discipline on and against their bodies, men get off scot-free.

The woman who checks her make-up half a dozen times a day to see if her foundation has caked or her mascara run, who worries that the wind or rain may spoil her hairdo, who looks frequently to see if her stockings have bagged at the ankle, or who, feeling fat, monitors everything she eats, has become, just as surely as the inmate of the Panopticon, a self-policing subject, a self committed to self-surveillance. This self-surveillance is a form of obedience to patriarchy. It is also the reflection in women’s consciousness of the fact that she is under surveillance in ways that he is not, that whatever else she may become, she is importantly a body designed to please or excite. There has been induced in many women, then, in Foucault’s words, “a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power.” Since the standards of female bodily acceptability are impossible fully to realize, requiring as they do a virtual transcendence of nature, a woman may live much of her life with a pervasive feeling of bodily deficiency. Hence, a tighter control of the body has gained a new kind of hold over the mind.

Sandra Lee Bartky, “Foucault, Femininity and the Modernization of Patriarchal Power,” in Irene Diamond and Lee Quimby (eds), Feminism and Foucault: Reflections on Resistance, 1988

Friday, 18 March 2011

Bend over

Livia Marin

A better use for lipstick..

Bjarne Melgaard

peck em all

The trouble with women

Joan Jonas

Zoe Leonard

Mouth open, teeth showing

"Drop Off A.M., Pick Up P.M." from the Dye Transfer Portfolio from Analogue, 1998-2007

"Discover Clothing" from the Dye Transfer Portfolio from Analogue, 1998-2007

"Mattress" from the Dye Transfer Portfolio from Analogue, 1998-2007

"Preserved head of a bearded Woman" 1991

"Goats, Lamb, Veal, Breast" from the Dye Transfer Portfolio from Analogue, 1998-2007

The Masturbators

Good old G to the Fish asked me whether I thought I needed to warn the public about explicit show content.
I'm sure the public will get over it.

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

News in Briefs

I found my soulmate in the pub. I was bursting with my love for Page 3 girls, when she told me that she had made herself into one. Here's to you, Catrin *clink clink*

The Moon and the Yew Tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence

Sylvia Plath

Nathalie Djurberg

Not a brilliant video, but you get the gist.

Djurberg's work gets the juices flowing


Kiki Smith