This week: Acre part 2! Duncan, Abigail and a cast of thousands talk to Ted Hiebert about his book In Praise of Nonsense: Aesthetics, Uncertainty, and Postmodern Identity and more! Feminism is bandied about and there is lots of ranting about Richard Florida? Who is a fascist? You’ll only know if you listen!
This week: We talk to Maud Lavin about her most recent book and more!
Lifted from elsewhere:
In the past, more often than not, aggressive women have been rebuked, told to keep a lid on, turn the other cheek, get over it. Repression more than aggression was seen as womanâ€™s domain. But recently thereâ€™s been a noticeable cultural shift. With growing frequency, womenâ€™s aggression is now celebrated in contemporary cultureâ€”in movies and TV, online ventures, and art. InÂ Push Comes to Shove, Maud Lavin examines these new images of aggressive women and how they affect womenâ€™s lives.
Aggression, says Lavin, is necessary, large, messy, psychological, and physical. Aggression need not entail causing harm to another; we can think of it as the use of force to create changeâ€”fruitful, destructive, or both. And over the past twenty years, contemporary culture has shown women seizing this power. Lavin chooses provocative examples to explore the complexity of aggression: the surfer girls inÂ Blue Crush; Helen Mirren as Jane Tennison inÂ Prime Suspect; the homicidal women inÂ Kill BillÂ and artist Marlene McCartyâ€™s mural-sizedÂ Murder Girls; the erotica of Zane and the art of Kara Walker; the group dynamics of artists (including the artists group Toxic Titties) and activists; and YouTube videos of a woman boxer training and fighting.
Women need aggression and need to use it consciously, Lavin writes. WithÂ Push Comes to Shove, she explores the crucial questions of how to manifest aggression, how to represent it, and how to keep open a cultural space for it.
This week: Patricia Maloney sits down with queer feminist artist and writer Emily Roysdon, as well as Phyllis Wattis MATRIX Curator Elizabeth Thomas. The conversation took place on December 10, 2010, as Roysdon was in the final stages of preparing for her exhibition at the University of California, Berkeley Art Museum’s Emily Roysdon: If I Don’t Move Can You Hear Me?/MATRIX 235, on view through March 6, 2011. Topics range from nostalgic delusions in Berkeley to hallucinations of the apocalypse on New Yorkâ€™s West Side. Along they way, they cover regulation, claiming space, collaboration, ecstatic resistance, and opening up language to find meaning.Â http://www.bampfa.berkeley.edu/exhibition/235
This interview is part of the ongoing collaboration between Bad At Sports and Art Practical.
Emily Roysdon is an artist and writer living and working in New York and Stockholm. She completed the Whitney Museum Independent Study Program in 2001 and an MFA at UCLA in 2006. She employs wide-ranging methods in developing her projects, including performance, photography, installation, text, and video, among others. Roysdonâ€™s concept of “ecstatic resistance,” which reflects on the impossible and imaginary in politics, was featured in simultaneous exhibitions ofÂ Grand Arts in Kansas City, and X Initiative in New York. Recenlty, her work has been included in the 2010 Whitney Biennial, Greater NY at PS1, Manifesta 8, and the Bucharest Biennial 4.Â Roysdon is editor and co-founder of the queer feminist journal and artist collective, LTTR.
GUEST POST BY DAMIEN JAMES
Part two of two.
If you haven’t already, you may be wondering by now what this has to do with art, why youâ€™re reading about a humanitarian crisis on an arts weblog? I’ll tell you.
During the community conversation and throughout the reading of Half the Sky, there were several thoughts insisting on my full attention, one of which was how different my world would be minus any single one of the incredible women Iâ€™ve known, either personally or exclusively through exposure to whatever their art may be â€“ painting or parenting, writing or teaching, cooking or counseling, making films or music. Each has been essential in some way, small or large, to my evolving understanding of the world I live in, no less my understanding of myself.
How many people would have less full lives if even a few of the women they know went missing or were never known to them at all? How would our own country be diminished intellectually, emotionally, artistically, if a million women were simply gone?
Women like Lynn Hershman Leeson, who, as a female artist trying to assert herself on the male-dominated art scene of the late 1960â€™s and 70â€™s, had to review her own work under a pseudonym because critics werenâ€™t giving women artists a single column inch.
Leeson went on to invent what is commonly known as Second Life, to pioneer the use of blue screen technology in film making, to become Emeritus Professor of Digital Art at the University of California, and to have work in many major collections, including the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Yet there was a time that her work simply didnâ€™t get reviewed.What Leeson gave to me, however, was a film she made in 2007 called Strange Culture, a brilliant hybrid of documentary and dramatic re-enactment with a bit of comic book thrown in, which I first saw excerpted on issue four of Wholphin. The films revolves around Steve Kurtz, professor of art at SUNY Buffalo, founding member of Critical Art Ensemble, and exactly the kind of guy youâ€™d like to smoke pot with and talk to about how to fix the world, knowing in advance that whatever lunatic THC-induced long-shots and utopian fantasies you might imagine, Kurtz was quite possibly one of the few people youâ€™d ever know who could make those fantasies real.
When Kurtzâ€™s wife and collaborator of 25 years, Hope, suddenly and unexpectedly died of a heart attack and the police responded to his phone call, what they found and how they reacted turned the next few years of Kurtzâ€™s life into nothing less than a battle with the government for his freedom.
Strange Culture is a time capsule of our subjugated civil rights under an unelected president, a record of our most recent and surreal dark age â€“ which, as we can currently see, will take some time to come out of.
Leesonâ€™s film inspired and enraged me. It introduced me to new ideas, people, problems. It literally influenced the way I live. (Can anyone say that about Avatar?) When I think back to the time before I had seen the film or learned about Leeson, it seems like I was in my own cultural dark age, or at least a bit more naive.
Women like Pamela Michele Johnson, an artist who perfectly illustrated my feelings about our consumer/capitalist society with six-foot tall paintings of Hostess cupcakes with glistening whipped lard centers, stacks of waffles with glowing oceans of syrup pooling in their crisp golden pockets, and toppling towers of ketchup-stained limp hamburgers looking so heavy and giant that you suddenly canâ€™t help but wonder how much of that shit youâ€™ve stuffed down your gullet.
Johnsonâ€™s art so poetically paraphrased every thought that Iâ€™ve never been able to put eloquently into words about how and what we eat, that I was instantly smitten with the paintings. She often shares peopleâ€™s responses to the work with me, and Iâ€™m continually surprised by how many people view these monoliths as objects of nostalgia, tributes to simpler times, especially since I see them first and foremost as satirical critiques. I canâ€™t help but view those â€œsimpler timesâ€ as farces of progress spun into our heads by corporations disguised as clowns and farmers and cute little animals.
Her work is important to me for those two reasons; that it was the first and most personal example of how someone else’s image could so singularly define my thoughts about a certain issue, and that it offered to renew my appreciation for just how differently we all interpret information, for better or worse.
Women like Pam Bannos, Senior Lecturer in the Department of Art Theory and Practice at Northwestern University, who uncovered the wholly neglected an incredibly relevant history of Lincoln Park, something which the current residents of the neighborhood might prefer to have left underground.
During the Civil War, Lincoln Park was a burial ground â€“ The City Cemetery, not only for Confederate soldiers but also the diseased â€“ and it is quite possible that there are still plenty of bones beneath those lovely lanes.
Bannosâ€™s extensive research made quite a bit of noise, and the city of Chicago worked with her to place several markers throughout Lincoln Park which illuminate itâ€™s history for hundreds of thousands of visitors a year.
The project, Hidden Truths, is currently being developed into a book, and having read a few of the early chapters, the potential is exciting. There are so many strange stories within the whole that Devil in the White City comes to mind, yet with far more immediate import.
The metaphors inherent in this story â€“ of sweeping the dead under the carpet of history (akin perhaps to not showing us the coffins of our fellow patriots as they come home from war), of affluence planting itâ€™s roots in the toil of drones (not unlike the 1 percenterâ€™s who have made their money on the backs of the 99 percent of us who have none) â€“ fit so snugly over the template of today that Bannos really cannot go wrong.
Her photography often beautifully aims its sweet spot at the idea and nature of truth, and I have no doubt that Bannos will apply the same focus, light, and personality to her book.
Experiencing the evolution of this project, from rigorously documented research to articulate narrative, has been an education in the creative endeavor for me, an education I intend to take full advantage of.And there are so many others, like Marjane Satrapi, whose masterpiece Persepolis is the crest of the wave of a woman-made cultural revolution in Iran; musician Rachel Yamagata, formerly of Bumpus,Â whose residency at Schubaâ€™s a few years back still resonates with unbelievable integrity and passion; Rebecca Solnit, an author who has not only chronicled but participated in some of the monumental social demonstrations of the last decade; Vandana Shiva, the brilliant activist and intellectual who has united the people of India in rejection of agri-monsters and ecology eaters like Monsanto and Coca Cola.
Women like â€“ though there is really no other woman like her â€“ Cassandra Oâ€™Keefe, one of the very first contributors to BUST Magazine, a staff member of GirlsRock! Chicago, and a gifted intuitive. Oâ€™Keefe is one of those unsung heroes who constantly crashes into our ever-expanding lack of civility and refuses to accept it.
She is an activist who has marched in every anti-war demonstration in the city of Chicago for the last decade, a creative autodidact who once decorated with handmade party hats and noise makers the smoked white fish which was to be eaten for a New Years brunch; and more importantly, a parent who decided to home-school her two daughters when No Child Left Behind became the prevailing but fundamentally flawed logic of the day for our public schools.
Not only has Oâ€™Keefe fought intolerance in her own neighborhood by simply engaging everyone she meets, but she has enriched my entire vocabulary for compassion. Those two daughters are mine as well, completing a trio of amazing women in my own home, none of whom I could imagine my life without.
Any of the millions of abused, abducted, murdered women in the world could easily be this important, this provocative, this enriching, for any number of people in their own lives. If given the chance. Their influence and intelligence could reach across the globe and touch all of us. Any one of the missing could profoundly impact someone near to them, if only they were truly valued.
There is an overwhelming amount of daily proof that our current values are failing us; our resources are withering, our environment is changing dramatically, and the same destruction that weâ€™ve visited upon ourselves throughout history exists today, only with more politically acceptable terms. The word genocide is used far less than the phenomenon of genocide is employed. More women have to accept rape than men have to pay for the crime.
These are truths only because of our collective lack of involvement. And there is no one I know who canâ€™t spare at least ten minutes to take the first step toward changing these truths.Â How much time can you spare, and to what end?
Damien James is a self-taught artist and writer living (barely) and working (constantly) in Chicago. He has contributed to Chicago Reader, New City, Saatchi Gallery Online, Art Voices, and the general goodwill of mankind, among other things. His art has been seen in Chicagoâ€™s Around the Coyote Gallery and Aldo Castillo, Brooklynâ€™s 3rd Ward Gallery with Art House Co-opâ€™s Sketchbook Project and Rhonda Schaller, various apartments in Berlin, London, Mumbai, and a tiny village in Romania.
March 1, 2010 · Print This Article
“Just what the hell does ‘radical scopophilia’ mean anyway?”, you might have wondered, if you happened to have read the New York Times article on Jeff Koons’ private collection that ran in last Sunday’s Arts & Leisure section. I chuckled a bit when I read the phrase, which New Museum curator Massimiliano Gioni used to describe Koons’ visual approach to art as well as, I gather, the intense visual pleasure Koons derives from his own personal collection. Here’s the key excerpt:
“I like this type work,” [Koons] said simply about the Courbet, then pointed to a brown patch on the bull’s fur vaguely shaped like the state of New Jersey and explained that he stares at the patch often and wonders whether it might represent “some form of, you know, soul or really a personal part” of Courbet’s own being. His main fascination with Knüpfer’s “Venus and Cupid” seems to be the spilled chamber pot at Venus’ side. Looking at a Manet nude, he talks about his appreciation for the “lack of violence” in Manet’s work and refers on separate occasions to a crease in the nude’s stomach, which he believes resembles a long-tailed sperm.
Lisa Phillips, the New Museum’s director, said in an interview that one reason she and the museum’s curators made the unusual decision to hand the Joannou show over to Mr. Koons was precisely because of his unconventional and compulsive way of looking at art, what the New Museum curator Massimiliano Gioni calls his “radical scopophilia.”
In work sessions as the show came together, Ms. Phillips said, he would use examples of work, new and old, “pointing to things that often would be the peripheral things in them, things that you might not see that were actually the things that were the most interesting to him – a monkey under someone’s foot, something like that.”
It’s interesting, to say the least, that Gioni chose this particular phrase to describe Koons’ eye (as it were), given that Koons’ approach to art is idiosyncratically a-historical in its embrace of visual pleasure. Gioni uses the term ‘scopophilia’ to describe a gaze that is voracious in its viewing habits, that takes what it wants from each work of art it encounters. But what Gioni doesn’t seem to get (or at least wants to skirt, by way of his pointless and uber-pretentious insertion of the term ‘radical’ in front of it), is the fact that, although scopophilia is a psychoanalytic term employed by Freud to describe a ‘love of watching,’ the term was also taken up in the 1970s and thereafter by feminist film theorists to account for the predominance of a specifically ‘male gaze’ in classic Hollywood cinema. (Think Hitchcock’s Psycho, then go read Laura Mulvey’s classic essay ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’ to see what I mean). Scopophilia implies an active male gaze and a passive female subject. It’s a type of gaze that has, of course, occasionally been reflected in the history of Koons’ own work, most notably Koons’ “Made in Heaven” collaboration with his ex-wife Ilona Staller.
I’m all for voracious looking, and I don’t mind a little a-historicity in the name of visual pleasure, either. But I don’t at all care for the way that Massimiliano Gioni’s stray quote, and its placement in this article, serves to whitewash the history of important work done by feminist film theorists in this area. Gioni’s blithe attachment of the term “radical” to his use of the term scopophilia only makes it worse. Please. There’s nothing ‘radical’ about the fetishistic power dynamic at play in the scopophilic gaze–or at least, in a straight man’s version of it. It’s the opposite, in fact.
The question is whether it is accurate or not to describe Koons’ curatorial eye as ‘scopophilic’ in nature. That I don’t know. One would have to actually see the show he curates, and the bulk of his collection in person, and, you know, brush up on your feminist theory a bit before you throw around terms that have a fair amount of history behind them, before hazarding a worthwhile opinion on that matter.