Posts Tagged ‘feminism’

Dear Friends of the Magical, the Surprising, the Weird and the Real:

Over here at Magically Real HQ, we keep an eye out for the thing that sparks us — the thing that makes us want to think, write, talk, and make work. Also teach. Also speak out when necessary. Also do laundry. We are always looking for the thing that makes us feel more alive by saying/showing/doing something where we have what philosopher Hans Gadamer calls the spark of recognition — the “this is you!” moment. Roland Barthes, queer post-structuralist would call it more simply the “pleasure of the text.”

This morning I had that experience. Thanks to a brilliant mutual friend, I follow the twitter feed of Porpentine — who has been mentioned on this blog before. Porpentine makes avantgarde videogames. She’s a genius.

Her latest offering is a sort of demonic poem-game about high-school girls, called LOVE IS ZERO.

You can read about it here.

And you can play it here.

How do I feel after playing it? I feel great right now because something awful has been named. Something that circulates in the relationships between women and girls, between girls and girls, between generations of women, between women at work, women at the grocery store, and women in families and conventions and schools. When the truth is named, we get to feel less burdened by it. We get to ask questions about it. And whatever we decide  – the ickiness has less power because it is out there. On the screen.

When the truthy is stretched out by magic, surrealism, grotesquerie and non-realistic cartoonery, we get at it more closely. It can hit us in a way that a news report can’t. Porpentine’s “game” asks us to think about what it is that are we really playing at.

Enjoy.

Magically Real Management

The mainstream narrative about girls in school tends to be pretty bleak. Interestingly, though, there’s an important counter-narrative that Herculine Barbin participates in, and may even have played a role in starting.

Take a look at the first half-hour of this famous feminist film, shot by a woman director in the early 1930′s:

Maedchen in Uniform

Dear friends of the Unreal — it’s SO very sunny outside today where I live, and there’s SO Much self-satisfied punditry circulating that I feel a little ornery.  Here’s a link to my absolute favorite personal anti-hero, and a glimpse into her world.

Vintage

This piece appeared originally win NYCBigCityLit and I thank them so much for believing in this story, which grew into a novel, that still seeks representation/publication.

Enjoy.

(Copyright, Stephanie Barbe Hammer, 06/24/2012)

A slightly sexy story about the power of reading, that originally appeared in the wonderful NYCBigCityLit online journal.  Read on…..

Cockeresque

Never read Kafka when you are in love. There can be outcomes.

I read In the Penal Colony with him, and The Metamorphosis with her. I shouldn’t have shared the same author with the two of them. I know that now, but I loved them both, if not equally, then in equally compelling ways, and I wanted them both to love me. So, I read my favorite books aloud to them with a charming voice, in the big house and the little apartment, in the king-size bed, in the narrow twin, at night and in the afternoon.

He would make love to me in that serious way of his, folding me around him like clean laundry, and she would also make love seriously, placing me face down on the kitchen table like a forbidden, fattening snack, the cups and dishes clattering to the floor. But the main thing was the reading, my own recitation just a provocation, an excuse that I might indicate to my beloved where he or she should take up the text, their voices mingling and intermingling in my head, one perfect androgynous sound.

But, as I said, there can be repercussions.

Punished for being a cheater, you think. No, the problem was I couldn’t decide. Most hold that The Metamorphosis is Kafka’s greatest work, but what of The Country Doctor, The Hunger Artist and, my personal secret favorite, about which I told no one? You see, I thought I could narrow down my choices; I thought I could limit my desires to two. But, lurking in my heart of hearts, when he was out, when she was washing the dishes, was the amorous identification with the smart small canine—a dachshund perhaps—who philosophized about flying.

There is a man down the street who has read the incomparable Investigations of a Dog. A shaved headed man with many muscles. Piercing eyes. He owns the record store on Carmelina. A man who likes to fight. He carries boxing gloves strung over an immense, carved shoulder. He is handsome and frightening.
He would see me walking on the street going to the grocery store, and he would always offer me a ride. On an, of course, motorcycle, leather-covered thighs gripping the machine. Kafka is pathetic, he said to me once. But he does amuse, doesn’t he?

Three lovers felt like too many. Further than two I could not go.

I woke up one morning and found that I had changed.


I woke up one morning, and found that I had changed. I am beautiful, unlike poor Gregor, purebred and German, unlike poor Kafka. But very long and small.

It seems it was the secret love that betrayed me. The one I could not admit to.

Now the first two still share me, passing the travel bed and collar back and forth; they know and they don’t mind. Perhaps even prefer it, for now they have more control. I spend some time in the apartment, where she threatens me with a rolled up newspaper when I steal scraps from the kitchen table, and some time outside in the garden of the house, with him and he is always gentle.

I miss reading for myself, but they read to me every day still with their beautiful human voices. Strange how having my belly scratched has replaced the orgasm. The pleasure of a smell, digging in the yard—so many joys I had never thought of.

Recently I learned how to put my long nose into the crack of the door in his house and slip down the stairs, slip out of the house, or press my paw on the old elevator button, get down from her apartment. The shaved head man waits outside; he pats my rump on his way back from his boxing club, where he has pounded lesser men into pulp for hours.

What a beautiful little beast, he says. He flexes his muscles and I whine. Sit, he says. I will read you a story about obedience and love. I fasten my limpid brown eyes on him, and cock my ears. He picks me up and takes me to a big park near the freeway to train me to fetch and to play dead. To become the perfect pet, he says. I bark.

There are times when he seems to be changing too, but into what, I cannot yet tell.

NYCBigCityLit.  This story and the futurist short story (“Vintage” also appearing in NYCBigCityLit), were edited and encouraged by the late Maureen Holm.  I wish I had gotten to know her better, but am grateful for the wonderful help she gave me with these 2 tales.

Thanks to @psychobiddy and @mollybot for use of Waldi’s photo. Waldi may be viewed in many spendid forms at:

http://whereswaldi.tumblr.com/

Like many women writers of the 19th Century, 20tth Century author Karen Blixen decided to use a male pseudonym, when she decided to give up working her ex-husband’s coffee plantation in Africa, and try being a writer instead.  Her pen name, Isaac, (Laughter) signals that she wants to laugh at the masquerade she has created and at us too, perhaps.  Blixen’s strange collection Seven Gothic Tales  seems to laugh alot at white, straight, cis, privileged European people.  Always ornate, and verging on the frivolous, these tales lead readers on a wry and sometimes comical tour of aristocratic and bourgeois euro-pretensions to grandeur, beauty, artistic genius, sex, and spirituality.

But underneath the levity and the baroque structures of the stories, there’s an interesting undertone that leads in the subversive directions of asking us to think about what it means to be “sexed”  in a particular fashion and how that sexed desire may or may not correspond to what we think it does (or should do).

The three stories that are the most interesting to me in these areas are “The Monkey,”  “The Roads Round Pisa,” and “The Dreamers.”  All three deal explicitly with the question that mystified Freud: “what do women want?” and all three progressively provide surprising possible quasi-answers to that question.

The first story is in many ways the simplest.  A pet monkey belonging to the Prioress of a “Northern European” convent, likes to scamper away for months at a time.  We readers forget about the animal, as our attention is focused on the frustrated courtship and eventual rape of Athena, by an almost surely homosexual aristocrat (Boris) who is desperate to preserve his reputation as an official heterosexual.

But, Athena, not only does not want Boris.  She doesn’t want any man.  Even after the successful rape (managed only with the assistance of a Cialis-type cordial given to Boris by the Prioress), Athena declares that she will agree to marry her rapist, but that afterwards, she will surely kill him.  Athena may be bloodied, but she is certainly unbowed, and is determined — despite what has transpired — to remain free.

This plot line distracts from but ultimately links up with the twist at the end.  It turns out that the machinations of the Prioress to “help” Boris “seduce” are indeed the machinations of the monkey, who takes the human woman’s place from time to time so that she can take on the monkey’s form and do— well, we don’t know what it is that she does in the forest.  Like Athena (who is deeply attached to her father), the Prioress is also a woman devoted to only one man – in her case Jesus Christ.  But that devotion masks a desperate longing to be free to do something (we don’t know what)– and that longing must be satiated at any cost.

“The Monkey” suggests that feminine wanting can only be expressed obliquely in terms of what isn’t wanted, and in terms of literal metamorphosis – the pleasures of which we are not permitted to witness.

A similar sidelining strategy operates in the “Roads Round Pisa.”  The apparent main story – Count Augustus’ quest to locate Donna Rosina di Gampocorta — gets momentarily interrupted by the appearance of a beautiful boy.  This beautiful boy (reminiscent of Tadzio in Thomas Mann’s “Death in Venice”),  says he wants to study astronomy because  he “can no longer stand the thought of time.” (SGT), which “feels like a prison to” him.

Not so surprisingly, given what we saw happening in “the Monkey,” this young man so afraid of prison time, turns out to be Rosina’s girlfriend Agnese (Agnes).

Once her “true” sex is discovered by Augustus, Agnese declares that she is “happy not to be” a man, but we wonder a bit about this, especially when we glimpse the tail end of a remembered scene between herself and Giovanni:

“You were naked for I had torn off your clothes.” . . . “For a year,” he cried, “I have thought of nothing that one moment.”  (Seven Gothic Tales, kindle location 3353)

Is this the end of a rape scene or a love scene?  Both? Neither?  We are not certain.  But what is certain is that, like Athena, Agnese does not want Giovani, or indeed any man.  What does she want?  The same thing the Prioress wants:  freedom.

But it’s a vague freedom.  At the end of the story, Agnese declares her joy at not “being shut up within one hour” and leaves.  To do what?  We don’t know.

Perhaps it is “the Dreamers” that brings us closest to what these disguised women want.  Through an elaborate set of ruses (supported by yet another man, who serves as a kind of [Jewish] fairy godfather), the central female character of the story is able to assume a mind-boggling array of identities:  a famous opera singer (Pellegrina Leoni), a captivating sex worker of the Roman brothel (Olalla), a revolutionary milliner named Mme. Lola who inspires the assassination of the Bishop of St. Gallen (although this seems something of a contradiction in terms), a widow named Rosalba, and an upstanding lady Mme. Heerbrand.

But who is this lady really?  She gives a complex answer near the end of the story:

I will not be one person again, Marcus.  I will be always many persons from now.” (Seven Gothic Tales)

What women want, Pellegrina affirms, is to be multiple and to live multiple lives under a variety of changing guises.  In this manner, she is able to have very different (sexual and non-sexual) relationships with very different men, as well as very different careers.  Pellegrina’s love of the stage gets worked out through this continual performance of transformative identities, a practice wrecked by the masculine insistence on “the truth.”

French feminists like Luce Irgaray and Helene Cixous would articulate this idea of the feminine as plural later in the 20th Century.  Likewise gay historian Michel Foucault would argue against the “self” as an entity.  It’s remarkable that the consciousness of both the feminine as multiple and the self as fluid is already expressed in Seven Gothic Tales, and with that awareness, the sober suggestion that life as “woman” is not only limited, but in some way false — an imprisoning misnomer that transformation and transvestism can indicate, but perhaps not ultimately escape.

At its most radical, the collection comes close to suggesting that gendered identity is a dead end, and that biology may be much less meaningful than preference, inclination, and performance. And that despite everything white privilege matters even as it is aware of its others clamoring to be heard on the margins.  “The Dreamers’ in particular signals the problematic primacy of the white male (cis) voice.

We are left to wonder how or if Karen Blixen managed to live differently, through the use of fiction writing under the name of Isak Dinesen.

Here’s hoping s/he did.

 


[i] I’m hoping I got all the identities.  It’s tough working off of the kindle for these sorts of details.

Most of us talk about longevity, but few of us dare to imagine ourselves as REALLY old.  AND fabulous.  Living, not in a hospital, but in a hotel.  Wearing a thick diamond clasp on one ear as we place our deeply wrinkled countenances in a suggestive side by side with a smooth skinned young man, wearing a simple gold earring.

Vogue Magazine, in their encyclopedic September 2011 issue, does just that: parades visuals of a woman – the same woman – wearing more than 100 years worth of fashions, as she visibly ages through time.  The final shots are startling, nightmarish, utopian, beautiful, and sexual.  The 90 year old woman is the woman mentioned above: a wizened siren with lustrous white hair.

The oldest woman is 120, and she wears a strappy black corset.  Prune-faced and yet erect, she is every inch a dominatrix to mis-quote a line from King Lear.

What would/will the world be like if/when old women claimed/will claim their agency/beauty/sexuality?  The Vogue spread asks this question.

The question is frightening because in those ancient faces, the viewer can no longer dismiss the inevitability of their own demise.  But the question is also inspiring, because it points to the possibility of pleasure and fulfillment as yet unarticulated unless you happen to be Georgia O’Keefe or Rachel Rosenthal.  These artists braved, performed, and represented decrepitude in order to affirm something truly glorious about the aging feminine.

Here’s to them and to us – all persons linked in whatever way to fem identity as it moves through BIG TIME.

Rachel Rosenthal homepage

Georgia O’Keefe Museum

Vogue Magazine