White is the new black

My friend Leonie visited last night, though really, I don't know why anyone would want to expose themselves to this virus, it's absolutely horrible. As I write this I feel that I'm on the mend because my temperature broke during the night and I'm greatly improved this morning.
I should give a bit of a plug for the current exhibition ~ Video: Art from the archive being held at Faculty Gallery, Art & Design Building, Monash University as Dr Leonie Cooper was one of the curators. Works on display are by Sadie Benning, Bonita Ely, John Gilles, Bruce Nauman, Luis Valdovino, Wendy Vasulka and Geoffrey Weary. What a pity that the catalogue essay has been printed in 8 point ~ it will be a real struggle for me to read it.

On an entirely different note, I've been following with interest the fallout from Andrew Bolt's blog entitled 'White is the new Black' in which he argues that many people are being opportunistic when it comes to declaring their aboriginal heritage ~ no matter how distant. See:

http://blogs.news.com.au/heraldsun/andrewbolt/index.php/heraldsun/comments/column_white_is_the_new_black#commentsmore

and the following, which outlines how offensive some people thought his comments.

http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/case-against-bolt-to-test-racial-identity-freespeech-limits-20100929-15xg8.html

I think that these conversations go to the issue of authencity and how 'real' aboriginals are determined. I personally believe that it is the indigenous community who should decide, given they are more likely to know whether that person has been involved in their culture. However, having said that, the Australian Council uses the following critera in determining whether the applicant is indeed Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander:

In defining Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander identity, the board uses a definition that combines three elements: descent, identification and acceptance. An Aboriginal person or Torres Strait Islander is defined as someone who is of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander descent, identifies as an Aboriginal person or Torres Strait Islander, and is accepted as such in the communities where he or she lives or comes from.
My experience working with Indigenous students is that many are concerned about not being 'black' enough, which is usually a reference to the color of their skin. They have taken on the anxiety of authenticity, meaning that they worry that they have opportunities lacking for their darker skinned counterparts in remote areas of Australia ~ people that they perceive as 'pure' aboriginals. What I think is being expressed here is dissociation of identity and culture, in which fair skin becomes not only an external signifier of genetic adulteration and cultural formation, but it is a powerful visual reminder of being separated from an original ontology. And there is such a huge divide; aboriginal people from remote areas don't have the same opportunities for education, employment, housing and social services as those of mixed genetic identity who live in large cities, so perhaps the issue is not why do light skinned people of aboriginal descent get funding and other kinds of assistance, but how can we, as a nation, ensure that aboriginal people in rural areas are given equitable opportunities. What might we do to address the health issues, the infant mortality rate, drug and alcohol abuse, lack of employment and suitable housing opportunities?

Time to rest again

My son Erin, circa 1982. Photo: Julie Clarke

I've been unwell for the past three days ~ runny nose, high temperature, body pain and chills ~it's been absolutely no fun at all and I don't have much motivation for writing. So there, that is my blog for the afternoon. I did cheer myself up yesterday by re-photographing some early photographs of my son and this one really exemplifies him in so many ways. I love the cheeky look on his angelic face and his folded arms.

Nothing to say

This is the first time in days that I've had my fingers on the keyboard and I really have nothing in particular I want to share. I feel quietened by some sad news and a number of other events and things I've had to think about. That quietness is not unfamiliar to me. I accept it because it's just the way it is. The hard rain in Melbourne this afternoon, whilst beautiful in the way that it caressed every surface, seemed to add to my already, not so much melancholy, but reflective mood. I'm still in that head space, hence, nothing to say and yet much to say that won't be said. I remind myself constantly that the past has gone and this moment and only this moment is important. The soft hum of the small electric fan on my gas heater ~ the glow of the grate, too orange to be called red as it burns. All and everything encapsulated in the now.

Faded away

Most of the physical pain that I've been experiencing over the past week or so just faded away this afternoon under the skillful hands of my osteopath, Leah who worked her magic on my tense muscles, and by sharing a glass of wine and good conversation at Jimmy Watson's with my dear friend Mark, who has a fantastic way of being able to articulate his love of life and good friends and I really appreciate that. I must say, I enjoy the sixteen minute bus trip from Lygon Street, down Johnston Street through Studley Park. The dense trees, like a mysterious forest are such a glorious sight, as is the backdrop of the Melbourne CBD skyline in the distance.

Embracing age

This is a photo I took of myself in January this year. It's just one of many. The really great thing about having a digital camera is that you can take multiple photos of yourself and immediately trash the ones that you don't like. I liked this one primarily because of the strange little dots that appeared on the image and the small amount of beautiful green hue in the background. I've posted this photo here this morning because I've been thinking about the whole concept of aging and my own attempt to embrace my age by deciding eighteen months ago to stop dying my hair and to just leave it white. I've had a number of comments during the past year, some are outrageously funny, like 'you look hot!', to more conservative and thoughtful remarks like 'you are an elder', or 'are you a senior?' The really good thing about aging, and I know we women are particularly afraid of the whole notion of getting older, because we live in an ageist society in which the young are the flavour of the month and none of us want to be seen as 'past our use-by date', which, by the way is the most horrible comment I've ever heard in relation to a person. Are people only seen as worthy because of their usability or what they can do for us? Getting older is OK. It demands a certain respect, people know that if you have lived this long you must have been doing something right and people listen to what you have to say. Being mature aged means that you can eat what you like whenever you like. In fact, if you feel like cereal at dinner time that's OK too, you've eaten enough healthy dinners in your life to make up for those few times that you simply want to eat a Vegemite sandwich followed by fresh strawberries. You don't worry anymore that you can't wear skinny jeans and you don't give a toss that you feel really sleepy at 10pm because you have nothing to prove by staying up or out late at night; you did all that when you were younger. No, getting older means going to bed when you are tired and getting up when you are good and ready (unless of course you have an early appointment). I can still sprint for the bus though try not to so that one of my knees doesn't buckle under me, but generally I'm fit and don't walk much slower than the average bear (boo boo), and if you are under 25 years old you won't even get what I just said. Mostly though, getting older and embracing your age is an acceptance of who you are and knowing your strengths and weaknesses. It's also about accepting that all your dreams didn't come true, you're not perfect and you couldn't do everything and now you don't even want to. All those crazy youthful fears about whether you are thin and beautiful enough, whether anyone will really love you, whether you will be accepted by people, fly out the window because you have learnt to love yourself, warts and all!

Ambivalent

I'm feeling rather ambivalent about nature at the moment. This morning I saw, what I think is the resident Magpie, eating a baby bird. It was treating this feather-less and helpless newborn as so much meat and the whole event put me in a strange state of mind. I stopped watching Meerkat Manor because in one episode whilst a mother was away from the nest and looking for sustenance, a dominant male Meerkat attacks and eats her three new-born pups. It devoured them with such relish that I just couldn't stomach it. I don't know why I let these things affect me. Perhaps it's about helplessness and injustice. Anyway, just had to vent this here. Otherwise, it's sunny today and not so cold. Spring is on the way.

Ban on the Burqa

One of the more interesting discussions about the current debate surrounding the French senate's ban on the Burqa and the emotional response by many Australians to the recent 'visibility' of Muslim women in our communities, occurred last night on the SBS television show Insight. I was impressed by the very personal reaction of Jacques Myard, member of the French National Assembly to Muslim women who cover their faces: 'I am the victim because those people refuse me to see their face, to communicate with them and I think this violates the common will to live together, especially in our society where woman are on equal footing to men in every sphere of the Republic'. Regardless of whether Muslim women choose to wear a Burqa (and some in the audience claimed they were wearing it as an assertion of individuality) or feel compelled to wear it to conform to religious beliefs or family pressures, the Burqa has become an outward sign of fundamentalist Islam and it is difficult for many to separate in their mind the symbol from the terrorist attacks by Muslim extremists that occurred on 9/11 ~ in the same way that the swastika is a potent symbol of Nazi Germany and still causes grief to those who remember the Holocaust. On this note, Cori Bernardi, Senator from South Australia raised the issue of security in relation to the wearing of the Burqa, apparently there have been incidences of bank robbers disguising their identity by wearing it. He said: 'So why all of a sudden are we having - making exceptions for our security and our cultural practices in this country for a tiny subset of people who are adhering to a fundamental, an extreme fundamentalist version of a religion'? Good point! Are we taking political correctness and multi-culturalism a bit too far, or, are we so desperate to be seen as a nation that applauds difference that we will encourage and support separatism? As far as I can see in the Quran, both men and women should be modest, but there is a section that says that women should 'lower their gaze and be modest'. Interestingly enough, one woman in the audience did say that individuals interpret 'modesty' in their own way. But I'm getting off the point. I think that the real issue here is that Islam has become politicised post 9/11 and we have become more vigilant about possible threats not only for our own physical safety, but also for our Western ideals and culture that we feel may become eroded if we continue to make exceptions for others who differ from us in what they believe and how they live. My concern is that it is the Muslim women who are carrying the burden, not only of visibly supporting their religious views, but of suffering certain injustices because or our fears and anxieties.

A human "being"

I've been given this time and quiet space to do with it what I will and yet I've still to settle on what it is that I'll do. I don't mind being in the 'I don't know' space, but there is part of my mind that demands that I attend to how I will spend my time and the voice that accompanies this demand is getting louder and louder. My friend Steve says 'be a human "being"', rather than a human 'doing'. I am aware that mindfulness is about just being content with the moment and I can do that some of the time, in fact I do try to meditate at least once a day, but, I have to admit that most of my life I've been a person doing and that's where I find my comfort. I suppose that this is the challenge, to be able to let go of the notion that you have to make something in each moment ~ that you must achieve ~ that you must accomplish something with this life that has been given you. I was watching Peter Thompson's interview last night with Po Ling Yeow on Talking Heads (ABC). Po is an artist and celebrity cook who was born in Malaysia, but feels more comfortable in Australia. She admitted that she felt more like herself when she was cooking alone or quietly painting and I have to admit that I also feel most content with myself in this mode, which is not to say that I am not social, for I am, it's just that I value my alone time and space to think, even if some of that time is spent not thinking. I'm always comforted when I hear that other's are like me ~ it must be something about the creative spirit that demands that we have time and space to concentrate on the task at hand, whilst still feeling that we are connected to the wider world through the thing or activity that we are undertaking. Of course the other positive about being a person doing is that you are totally distracted from any aches and pains that you're experiencing and I discovered that was true on the weekend when I was weeding. My body wasn't actually sore until I stopped. What I've discovered is that work can take you away from self and mindfulness encourages focus on self ~ I suppose as always that balance is the ideal to strive for, and yet, as I write this all I can think of is what to do, what can I do, what might I do, what will the day bring. Enlightenment is a challenging path.

Beauty and the terror...

I thought I'd inject a bit of color into this somewhat overcast day. Here's a view of the side garden and close up of some of the flowers. I was derailed from taking photographs when I saw the largest wasp I've ever seen in my life. I thought it best to come indoors since it appeared hell bent on trying to land on me.

I've read to page 160 of Moby-Dick and loving it even more because Melville has finally introduced Captain Ahab. I might have read more, but had visitors over the weekend and I weeded part of the vegetable patch so that I can do some Spring planting. This is the first time in two decades I've lived in a place with a garden, so it's a real novelty.

A singular event

Julie Clarke in studio at Hawthorn (circa 1993). Photo: Julian West

This photograph ~ me bare-footed, sitting crossed-legged beside a run down old television that's slipped slightly out of view in my studio above a shop in Glenferrie Road, Hawthorn about seventeen years ago was taken by Julian West, writer and avid photographer who is the son of the preeminent Australian playwright and novelist Morris West. Julian and I had worked together at the Hawthorn City Council and became friends because of our interest in writing and art. I came across this photograph whilst I was moving from my old place to the new and realised that I had absolutely none of the art-works I produced from that time. What is left of that singular event, time and place is this photograph. Somewhere amidst the collection of things still left (though I've yet to find them) are other photos he took of me on the same day ~ my head in arms rested on my knees ~ one of the large works on paper, yet unfinished and affixed to the wall behind me. Memories are prompted here purely by this photograph. I have not thought of the space above the shops for nearly two decades and here the images and ideas come to life again. Do you remember me? I seem to be saying to myself as I look, and I do remember her, she so much wanted to be an artist and some where along the way words took precedence.

Fashion police

Annette Kellermann wearing the controversial one piece bathing suit, 1900s. Image courtesy of the George Grantham-Bain collection, Library of Congress. http://www.cultureandrecreation.gov.au/articles/swimming/

I wasn't going to say anymore about the imposition by the Muslim Mayor of Dandenong (well, he's said to be a follower of Islam) on non-Muslim's at a proposed swim meet during Ramadan next year, but it's just too, too delicious, to let go of. I recall the controversy during the 1960s that surrounded women wearing bikini's on Melbourne's beaches and I found this fantastic little article, with some revealing cartoons, one of which is dated 22 April, 1955 (my fourth birthday). Have a look at it, it's quite amusing and reveals how local councillors (primarily men) have been determining what and what isn't appropriate swim wear for Australian women for quite some time.

http://www.waverley.nsw.gov.au/data/assets/pdf_file/0008/8666/BikiniArrestsBondiBeach.pdf

However, it wasn't only women's bathing costumes that created antagonism during the 1960s. I remember my grandmother (who brought me up) telling me not to speak to men who wore Speedos. We almost always encountered these men on the beach where we swam; they appeared more confident, more sexual than those who wore woollen bathing costumes that resembled shorts. Perhaps Speedo wearers felt freer and less inhibited, or maybe our perception of them was determined by the fact that their genitalia was pronounced and easily seen through the sheer fabric.

Burqini (Islamic bathing suit), equivalent to a 1900 neck to knee bathing costume, is basically a tunic with head covering worn over leggings made from polyester fabric. It's touted as a costume, which enables those wearing it to be modest, but it is also a way of women concealing body weight, scars, cellulite, or to protect them from sunlight and skin cancer.

I personally loathe having to wear anything whilst I'm swimming, no matter how comfortable the material. But unfortunately nudity is not the equalizer we might think it to be ~ it may remove the mask that clothing offers, but as soon as you begin to expose your body you are subject to a gaze that's mediated by society's idea of the body beautiful, with the end result being, if you are overweight or physically unattractive you are encouraged to cover up. I guess that's part of the reason why our Aussie culture has been so determined to make personal choices about how much of our bodies we expose, particularly when we swim. We have a tradition of flying in the face of fashion police who would impose their standards and their morality on our clothing choices.

Ground Zero ~ digitally manipulated image ~ Julie Clarke, 2006.

Rather than smoothing the waters between different religious groups, yet another wave of discontent has been created through media misinformation. Dandenong Municipal Pool has imposed a ban on 'uncovered shoulders and thighs' for non-Muslim patrons who wish to attend a two hour swimming event during Ramadan next year. The Muslim women who usually use the pool during that time didn't ask for others to follow their dress code, the idea was devised by OTT PC event organisers. The solution is easy ~ if you find the idea of covering up whilst swimming ~ and I certainly do, then don't attend, there are thousands of hours of swimming time available to you. End of story.

Wall rushes and whale's

Unlike Ishmael and his companion Queequeg in Moby Dick, who have set off in very cold weather to embark on a whaling voyage, I have sought solace by returning home from the cold weather outside to continue reading and generally enjoying being in the warmth. I've read to page 78 and just had to post this little description ~ 'With the landless gull, that at sunset folds her wings and is rocked to sleep between billows; so at nightfall, the Nantucketer, out of sight of land, furls his sails, and lays him to his rest, while under his very pillow rush herds of walruses and whales' (p.71). It really is very cold outside today, the wind keeps rushing along and crashing into the trees. It's not gale-force, but the birds huddle and the leaves quiver. I'm grateful for my gas heater and my friendly and engaging book, to which I will shortly return. Like many, I'll be watching 9/11: Phone calls from the towers on ABC1 tonight at 8pm. I'm curious to discover what people actually said when they realised their dire situation, although I suspect that much of what was communicated was love for family.

Nemesis

Yesterday I began reading Herman Melville's Moby-Dick or, The Whale (1851). It has been on my must read list for quite some years now. Of course, I'd seen the most amazing film Moby Dick (John Huston, 1956) with Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab, several times during my lifetime, but had never found time to read the book. The film, which depicts the power of the surging ocean and of Ahab's emotions towards his nemesis the whale, still stands as one of my favourites. At this stage I've only read to page 46, but love Melville's description of why Ishmael is drawn to the sea. 'When I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet...I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can' (p.3). His description of the barman at The Sprouter Inn appears apt as a 'withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death' (p.15). I'm sure that this novel will feed into my own, which for the sake of having a working title is called 'The Flood' ~ my obsession with water continues! And, on that note, it was good to hear that Minister for Foreign Affairs, Kevin Rudd, leaving his nemesis behind, is visiting flood ravaged Pakistan today to gauge how Australia and the rest of the world can be of assistance.

I don't know

Being able to say 'I don't know' can be a desirable position, for always 'knowing' the answer or assuming that you know the answer fixes you in a place in which you are no longer open to the possibilities of 'not knowing' and doubt. In 'not knowing', all potentials and possibilities are still in play for thought or action. At a time in which knowledge is paramount, to say 'I don't know' may sound feeble, tentative and yet to me those three words have so much power. It's not that you don't 'know' your own mind - you do. What you 'know' is that you have not yet settled on a solution, that you are still thinking things through and you might even decide after cognitive processes are exhausted that you still 'don't know', and that is alright! Might we consider giving ourselves the permission to be in the position of 'not knowing'? Must we fix everything down ~ a beautiful butterfly with it's wings pinned under specimen glass ~ there, we 'know' it now, it's spread out before us, it can be witnessed, dissected and analysed. What of free floating ideas that never become fixed, circulating and mutating in the space of the 'I don't know'? Is that what it is that we are afraid of, that these ideas have not been allocated to the space of 'knowing' where all is controlled and understood? We appear to demand quick solutions in which 'I know' statements replace big picture processes in which the notion of 'I don't know' might be more useful.

Pakistan flood

Whilst we have had many reports on Australia television about the 33 miners trapped in a Chilean mine, which is a dreadful thing, since they may not be rescued until Christmas, it was good to see the ABC documentary last night about the devastating impact of the Pakistan flood - begun with heavy monsoon rains in July, which has killed over 1,300 people, destroyed housing and land as well as their potential to grow food, and which will, over the next few months cause thousands of deaths due to water-borne diseases such as diarrhea and malaria. There was an appeal for donations over the past few weekends at the Rotary Market in Camberwell, but I really hope that the Australian people get behind this worthy cause. For images of the impact of the flood in Pakistan see:

http://www.google.com.au/images?hl=en&q=Pakistan+flood&rlz=1R2ADBF_en&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&ei=FKSOTOyTDI-evgPQuMCtAQ&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=9&ved=0CGIQsAQwCA&biw=1231&bih=712

This poor dead Owl (I think it's an Owl) was underneath a tree on the nature-strip this morning. I had a good hard look at it laying there with its beak open and I felt sad that such a beautiful creature was no longer flying around. In many cultures the Owl is considered an evil omen and represents human spirits after death, but I think this is only considered true if the Owl is alive and inhabiting your domain. Nobody ever says anything about dead owls. Even so, I was disturbed at seeing it, since seeing one is for me so rare. The last time I saw one was about ten years ago and it was a baby Owl sitting in a tree near Lygon Street, Carlton.

This is one of the glorious blooms in the garden. Spring is such a beautiful time of the year; it heralds new beginnings and says goodbye to those almost unbearable cold Winter days. I'm looking forward to more daylight hours and sitting on my balcony to admire the view. And speaking about beauty and elegance, congratulations must go to my friend Dr Petra Nolan who came first runner up in the '2010 Mad about the hat day' at Rosehill Racecourse. See her photo at:

http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/entertainment/sydney-confidential/gallery-e6frex89-1225918657732?page=1

I went to the Camberwell Market yesterday and then spent the rest of the day cooking because my son and his girlfriend were coming for dinner. Later, I watched Iron Man (Jon Favreau, 2008). I hadn't seen it before and was really impressed by the CGI sequences and the way that Tony Stark's (Robert Downey Jnr.) transformation into Iron Man mirrors the actual Transformer action figures, which I've loved ever since I bought them for my son in the 80s. I think if I was going to seriously collect anything it would be Transformers or robots. In the meantime, I found a couple of reasonably priced EPNS items at the Camberwell Market to add to my small collection ~ it's quite difficult walking around that second-hand market without purchasing something, even though during the move I divested myself of so many possessions. I kept thinking I'd run into someone from my past yesterday ~ maybe Kris and Rhetta Hemensley from Collected Works Bookshop, who frequent the market, but it was very crowded and sometimes you just can't see the woods for the trees.

Sleepers

I've been looking through all the photographs I've taken over the past year and I particularly like the ones I've taken of people sleeping. The first, a young man at Melbourne University, sleeping amidst the falling Autumn leaves. The second, napping outside the NGV International in mid Summer in February this year shows how hot it must have been. Tourists catching a quick nap on the leather lounge at the Australia on Collins probably indicates that they had been doing too much sight-seeing. The old woman, with a beanie on her head was in Myer's ladies rest room, I saw her there several times and resisted taking a photo, but in the end I gave in because she was such a good subject. A man sleeping on the lush green grass outside St.Paul's Cathedral is not an uncommon sight and finally, the last photo is of another woman sleeping in Myer's restroom. I am fascinated by the fact that people can fall asleep in public, I'm sure that I could never do that.

Another walk

Another big walk this morning and then some shopping in Camberwell. In the sky, voluminous black clouds gathering ~ then the temperature dropped. I've just walked from the tram stop in the pouring rain. It wasn't a pretty sight, me struggling with my shopping bags all the while trying to steer my umbrella in the wind. One lone person was walking their dog in the park, oblivious to the weather!

4.26 am

I was awake and up at 4.26 am this morning primarily because I went to bed at 9.30 pm. As I was falling asleep I could hear the heavy rain. I had a strenuous day yesterday, lots of walking. I walked past 480 Burwood Road where I lived from the age of five, until I was eight years old ~ it's still the same, except the front hedge was a little over-grown. Miss Starr's glorious brick residence on the corner is still there ~ my grandmother would occasionally take us to her place for afternoon tea. Wearing old fashioned clothes and a severe look, Miss Starr, who must have been all of seventy plus years would sit in her high-backed chair and hold court like some regal being from a past era. My sisters and I, dressed in our Sunday best, would sit up straight like we'd been told to do and we'd be too terrified to speak or eat. I have a strange sense of comfort knowing that the houses are still there even though Miss Starr and nan have long passed from this world. I knew that if I returned to Hawthorn that early memories would start flooding in. Perhaps it is a reminder that I must finish my novel. It was put on hold and has stayed there far too long. Why is it that we find some things so hard to finish. Is it because we have to finally let go of them? I've had little trouble writing articles and a PhD thesis, but this novel is the most demanding, the most frustrating project in my life to date. It's 5.58 am and although it is still not light, I can hear the first bird calls of the morning.

A work in progress

It was a beautiful sunny Spring day and FnL came for lunch. It's the first time in ages that I've had a really good discussion about art, and since I hadn't yet seen the Basil Sellers Art Prize, they very thoughtfully gave me one of the catalogues as well as one of their most recent small paper artworks. After lunch I took them around the common grounds of the property to look at the flower and herb gardens and Leonie noticed this half-finished birds nest in the tree in the front garden. It's spindly and airy and seems to match the branches that have lost all their leaves. Such a contrast to the rest of the garden, which is green, lush and abundant with flowers.

Congratulations Julia!

Of course, it goes without saying, I'm absolutely delighted that the Hon Julia Gillard, PM has been returned as leader of our country. I've just been watching her on television and she has a grace, composure and strength that I really admire. Thanks should go to the Independent MP's who supported the Labor Party and have already been instrumental in changing the way that the government will operate. So, congratulations Julia ~ now we can truly say we have our first elected female Prime Minster.

Numbers

I found a faster route to Melbourne University today. Two short tram trips to Kew Junction and then the No. 207 bus that runs down Studley Park Road and Johnston Street. It was at least half an hour faster than taking the Burke Road Tram to Camberwell Junction, then the No. 75 tram to Flinders Street and then a tram up to Melbourne Uni. Sorry ~ so much detail and minutia, but really, moving to a new place means having to adjust your life considerably, especially if you are dependant upon public transport. It rained off and on most of the day and I didn't take an umbrella, because I didn't want to carry it.

It was nice and comfy having a coffee at Tiamos in Carlton, but I felt distant and disconnected to it, like it was so much of my past and I'm trying to leave much of that behind. It was cold and all I really wanted to do was get home after tutoring and it already feels like home here, so comfortable and warm. I've decided that when Spring has really made its mark and the days are consistently warmer I'll paint or draw whilst sitting on my balcony. I imagine that those Camellia's growing in the garden will make their way into the subject matter since they are so pervasive.

I had occasion today whilst discussing terror and the word terrorism (such a loaded term) in a tute session, to recall some of the events that impressed upon my life and altered my world view. Indeed, I'm sure that many people no longer perceived the world as a safe place to live. The first was when I saw moving images of the mushroom cloud caused by the explosion of the atomic bomb over Hiroshima and images of inmates in Nazi death camps during WW2. The assassination of President John F. Kennedy in 1963 and constant televised images for over a decade of the Vietnam War. The massacre by terrorists at the Munich Olympic Games in 1972. The destruction of Darwin by Cyclone Tracey in 1974. The Granville train disaster in 1977. The Sydney Hilton bombing by terrorists in 1978 ~ the 2002 and 2005 Bali bombings. John Lennon's murder in 1980. The attempted assassination of Pope Paul II in 1981. The Ash Wednesday fires in 1983 and Black Saturday fires last year. Unforgettable images in 1984 of starving children in Ethiopia and the consequential Feed the World tour. Julian Knight's massacre of seven people in Hoddle Street in 1987. The horrors of the Gulf War in 1990 and a decade later, images of the 9/11/2001 attack on the World Trade Centre. The Port Arthur shooting massacre in 1996. Princess Diana and Mother Teresa's deaths in 1997.

Every event affects people in different ways. My son was born in 1977 and I was extremely distressed with the news that the US space laboratory Skylab I ~ all 77.5 tons of it, was expected to fall back to earth and was anticipated to fall somewhere in Australia. I was worried that it would crash down on our house ~a little dramatic and paranoid I suppose, but I'd been brought up by a grandmother who continually told stories about the war and I adopted her fear about terror coming from the sky. However, most of my fear was fueled by media speculation about where the space debris would fall. When it tumbled back to earth on the 11 July, 1979, most of the pieces were scattered near Perth, Western Australia. The drama over, we could all breathe again.

Channel 9 is screening 911 State of Emergency on Tuesday night. It maintains 9/11 is the single event that changed the world. I'll watch, but I'm not convinced that it changed our world view anymore than many other events that have impacted on so many lives.

Glorious view

This is the glorious view from my balcony. It's a cold and overcast day, but the flowers brighten the vista. When I look at the flowers I remember my grandmother ~ she was an enthusiastic gardener with a passion for begonias. I feel so blessed to be living in such amazing surroundings. They say that the universe doesn't give you what you want, but often gives you what you need. I must have needed beauty in my life, for the universe has certainly given me that. The grounds here are perfectly sculptured and orderly, nothing appears out of place ~ only the wind drives the leaves off the trees and falling petals from the flowers continue to grace the balcony. One lone bird cries in the silence ~ I imagine that most people are still asleep. Later, people will be jogging or walking their dog in the nearby park. I too will be venturing out, perhaps to the Camberwell Market ~ the food, the second-hand goods, the buskers. .

Saturday

I didn't make a post yesterday because my keyboard threw a wobbly and wouldn't produce any text. Thankfully it's working this morning. I've not much to report, except that I've been catching up on badly needed sleep and have had some nice compliments sent my way. The first was from the manager of Westpac in Melbourne who telephoned to express his thanks that I'd posted the photo of the Anniversary of Melbourne cake ~ apparently none of the staff that day had remembered to take a camera to record the event. Secondly, Shannon Bell sent an email saying how much she enjoyed my review and criticism of her book, which she is going to link to her website. Finally, Steve visited me yesterday and was impressed by my new abode, which by the way I am loving, even though I didn't hear the rain last night and I do love hearing the rain. It is so utterly quiet this morning, not even any birds singing ~ perhaps they are huddling in the trees. I was saddened last night to hear on a television report that the only places where some people (mainly the elderly or unemployed) can find a sense of community is in a club or pub with pokies or gambling machines. I was equally dismayed to know that some people spend most of their day just sitting at a machine loosing much of their money because they have nowhere else to go and no one to speak to. I was involved in the Community House movement in the 80s and watched as they gradually deteriorated from free, drop in places where people could share in various activities and find a sense of purpose and friendship with others, to a user pays system where the activities and courses became more formal. People want to have the freedom to come together at a time of their choosing, perhaps that's why these pokie venues have become so popular. Still, it's sad that much of our lives is mediated by machines. That's why everyday I go out for a walk, look at the trees and sky and enjoy the world beyond us, of which we have little control.

FAST FEMINISM ~ Book review by Julie Clarke

FF is a post-gender provocateur, not so much a gender terrorist as a gender risk-taker going the distance with her body. FF's philosophy is lived. Actions count. One resists with one's body. (p.11)
Autonomedia, New York, has just published Fast Feminism the latest book by the performance philosopher and associate professor in Political Science at York University, Shannon Bell. The book contains 198 pages including thirty-one plates - six of which are close-up color photographs of Bell’s genitalia with or without strap-on dildo and harness or Magic Wand vibrator, taken during her masturbation/ejaculation performances. It may appear unusual that an academic is involved in public displays with highly charged, erotic content, however; Bell has been conducting workshops on the female phallus and instructing women on the art of female ejaculation for the past two decades.

Bell’s oeuvre follows a long tradition in performance art that includes: Vito Acconci's Seedbed (1971) in which he masturbated underneath a ramp at the Sonnabend Gallery, New York as people walked by above him, Valie Export's film Mann & Frau & Animal (1973) that shows her pleasuring herself in a bathtub, Annie Sprinkles' ritual magic masturbation performances, Elke Krystufek's 1994 masturbation performance at Vienna Kunsthalle and a public performance in the mid nineties by the transgendered academic and performance artist, Allucquere Rosanne Stone who stimulated the palm of her hand to produce an organism. Moreover, Bell’s performance is '…embedded in praxis’, and, indeed, like Stelarc 'The "I" of the text is a post-identity recognized by gait, movement and speed' (p.14).

FF is a confessional and articulate text that straddles academic writing and colloquial language; it draws heavily on sexual expletives to stress the sub-cultural activity in which her performance praxis operates ~

When she wants, she has the phallus ~ a hard prosthetic cyborg cock. She is part woman, part silicone, part rubber. She straps on the phallus to jack in to fucking: up your ass, in your mouth, in your cunt. (p.34).
Initially the reader is aware that Shannon Bell is the fast feminist for there is a photo of her on page six with the letters FF branded on her forearm; however as we make our way through the text the multiple characters mapped onto her academic persona take over and appear as fictional fantasy avatars—cyborg, phallic mother, Sadean woman, little girl, female Don Juan (p.23). It is in this way that she not only engages with the genre of erotic literature and French philosophical theory, but also with current discourse that surrounds the digital matrix and avenues for constructing alternate personae which erode gender binaries. Move over Second Life with your virtual characters and fantastic scenarios Bell is doing it in real life!

Bell states that 'Fast Feminism is a work of speed philosophy, pornography and politics…which applies seven tendencies of Paul Virilio's work' (p.12), however she also '…implements Deleuze’s imperative of buggering…Virilio's work' (p.13) to produce a new offspring. She does this by deploying '…the female phallus, performative action and perverse aesthetics', rather than military history, architecture and aesthetics – Virilio's critical domain. As a performance artist she is extremely influenced by Stelarc 'who premises his theoretical claims and philosophical pronouncements on his practice'. Bell explains:

Fast feminism is a contribution of FF’s body to philosophy. It is a pragmatic gesture in which "the idea is always in the act" of owning the female phallus, female ejaculation, redoing Sharpe’s Boyabuse narratives on two adult bodies, doing and writing female Bataillean sex fables, making post-porn images and contemporizing Shiva (p.173)
FF’s text is definitely Deleuzian. One idea begins and is shattered, only to be taken up in the next already somewhere else, free-floating and circulating. However, rather than 'buggering' the texts and producing a bastard offspring ~ an activity that Bell states as her intention throughout the book, Fast Feminism appears at least on the surface as homage to masculine writers. Texts by George Bataille and the Marquis de Sade collide and intersect with Emmanuel Levinas ethics of the other; the latter used in her chapter on the perverse aesthetics of the homosexual, pedophile, child pornographer and writer, John Robin Sharpe. I must say that although I accept Sharpe's erotic writings are situated within an established and honored literary genre I was uncomfortable with this section because I have raised a child and believe that children should be protected from those who may hurt or abuse them, which is not to say that I believe that everyone who writes about a particular subject intends to act upon their fantasies and desires. However, we are constantly reminded of the extent to which children are abused not only in our own culture but in places like South Africa, where child rape is increasing at a shocking rate and those affected are treated like outcasts. I was not surprised, given the politics, style and content of Bell’s book that FF might argue '…the possibility of ethical and cultural acceptability for written and visual representations of sexualized youth' (p.87) since her oeuvre promotes sexual self-expression.

I was less interested in the practice of female ejaculation and Bell’s manual of how to achieve it (which forms much of the basis of chapter two), than the writing itself and the various references to philosophical theory, performance art and politics of the body ~ '...she was doing femme and the only position for a femme is to be 'invaded, penetrated, split, occupied…' (p.138). When FF is meditating at a wake for Horsey—a dog that died because he could not digest a bone, she asked one of the participants at the wake to reach inside her vagina and remove the package of money she'd placed there as a donation. This action evoked Carolee Schneemann's 1975 performance Interior Scroll in which she slowly extracted rolled up paper from inside her vagina, whilst reading from a text that reflected the subject positions of both genders. Moreover, FF draws attention to the relationship between currency, the female body and the way is has been abused by others throughout human history. By branding her body Bell has created a living, breathing commodity. Likewise, the tattoo clearly visible on FF’s mons venus and the Star of David she has tattooed on her upper body becomes more potent if we consider Marina Abramovic's 1975 Lips of Thomas performance in which she used a razor blade to cut into a star shape already traced on her stomach ~ an evocation of female victims in Nazi concentration camps who were stripped naked, humiliated, raped, tortured, prostituted and exposed to medical experimentation, including forced sterilization techniques.

Throughout the text, FF’s technologically augmented body - strident and showy with her strap-on dildo and high speed vibrator initially appears in antithesis to the other, quiet, spiritual body image that she projects when she embraced the mythical Hindu god Shiva, the cannibalistic Aghori sect of India and Gunter von Hagen’s lined, wrinkled and plastinated Skin Man. However strange these apparently discrete but complementary images of the human/not-human, dead/undead, animate/inanimate appear, they do reveal the range of her adopted persona's and her engagement with what may be perceived as hot and cold aesthetics. She gives more than a nod to Stelarc's work with prosthetics and robotics. In fact, cold, hard surfaces, decay, deterioration and death are the nodes that connect the blackened, charred remains of a human corpse that Bell encountered in Varanasi, the black 551 tattoo that Bell inscribed on her mons venus in respect for the cadaver whose uro-genital region she dissected, the multi-limbed statues of Shiva as well as Stelarc's not-human, six-legged, walking robot Exoskeleton that Bell pleasured herself upon:

FF’s fetish was steel. She slid under Stelarc’s 600-kilogram robot to check out its sex organ. Her phallus contracted and kept contracting; she came. (p.175)
I applaud Bell’s exhibitionism and loss of control against the sleek body of a machine usually associated with masculinity and control, but with all the emphasis on sex and death her text also references the several, rather than the one, '…multiple, complex and contradictory subjectivity's are acknowledged…' (p.16). Better to run with the pack, which is dispersed and deterritorialized (Deleuze & Guattari, 1987) than to remain the lone wolf. Take care of your self, but participate in the pack. Strangely enough, the machines that Bell fucks with can be dismantled and reassembled ~ they will not age, they will continue functioning; whereas, throughout the text she exposes and confronts the fragility of her own ageing flesh whilst entering ‘death time’ with her dying mother as well as in her latest performances in which the audience is confronted with Bell's 'old rag and ruin' (Bataille: Madame Edwarda, p.150):

When I do ejaculation demonstrations and nude public performances what meets the viewer’s eye is…an older, small, muscular femme body – a body that’s not supposed to be seen, nor up to until now to be sexual and sexualized. The obscenity is in the showing, the obscene seduction is in presenting a hypersexual older powerhouse femmly (female equivalent of a manly) body. Of course, one of my political commitments…is to queer the old female body, to fuck with the signs of aging while presenting them. Gesture, movement, style and body composition meet and meld with age spots, knee wrinkles, and sagging upper arm undercarriage. (p.21)
It is clear from this statement and from her photographs that FF is not an everyday example of an aging female body. Having never borne a child she does not posses drooping breasts, excess fat deposits, stretch marks, scars, sagging stomach muscles or the like. But she does underscore the fact that in our youth obsessed society, bodies that are old, diseased or less than perfect are generally encouraged to remain hidden from public view.

Indeed, a strategy against the aging body and diseased organs is the development within biomedicine of tissue engineered replacement body parts. Riding on the intrigue and possibility for experimentation as well as the resulting rarefied aesthetic that tissue-engineering offer, a number of artists have been motivated to move into the realm of creating bio-artificial artifacts. One example is Stelarc’s tissue-engineered quarter scale ear. Bell’s own foray into the laboratory also resulted in the construction and replication of particular body parts. Her tissue-engineered Two Phalluses and a Big Toe calls to mind Bataille’s text 'The Big Toe' in Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939. According to Bataille 'the big toe is the most human part of the human body' (20:1985) the big toe differentiates us from apes, since it enabled the human to walk upright or be erect. Bell’s tissue-engineered phallus invites us to think about human evolution in relation to the construction of sexuality and the immense impact that various technologies do and will have on the way we perceive ourselves and others in real and imaginary domains.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Fast Feminism and would recommend it to anyone interested in performance art, philosophy and sexuality. For more information about Shannon Bell and her book see:http://www.fastfeminism.net/

10,000 page views!!!!

Today marks a bit of a milestone. I've had 10,000 page views of my blog since the beginning of this year ~ that's really heartwarming; I never expected my musing to generate so much interest! Thanks those who regularly read my blog and also to those who dip into it for the reviews I write of films and art exhibitions. This is great because it coincides with me living in a new place and with the official first day of Spring. By way of celebrating the beginning of the next 10,000th blog I'll be posting my review of Shannon Bell's book FAST FEMINISM and including with it the cover and a link to the website. What more can I say? Keep reading and enjoying and please do make comments.