Steve McQueen set the film world on fire with HUNGER (2008) five years ago. His debut film pinpointed to a director that not only knew how to fill a frame but took the time to familiarize himself with the in and out’s of his topic at hand. I mean, his first film was a reconstruction of a 90 second videotape left from the Hunger strike and riot that occurred in 1981 in Ireland, holy moly! Its a film about politics in every way. Its about the politics regarding the IRA and British Government struggle. Its about body politics; how the human body has been used as a political statement. And lastly it is about the statement itself, the political statement, the power that comes through it.

Like Hunger, Shame (2011) has all the seriousness one can possibly expect from a McQueen film. Shame had notes of Hunger. There is still an analysis on the body and its treatment. Just as Hunger had its constant reminder shots of the topic at hand so does Shame. Both films frequently had tight frames fixated on body parts. Hunger fixated on broken flesh, protruding bones or hands, especially the hands…hands, hands, hands. Each shot was filled with how the human body became a political statement. His focus on hands in Hunger points to the power of the political statement. He shot them making political demands. We see them writing letters to pass along to those outside prison to using their hands to defy on walls using their shit, we even see the bloody hands of the guards. Shame also focused on the body but this time the camera was aimed at the face (other parts as well, of course, but I’ll leave that up to you to discover) for example the first scene is an observation on the power of the penetrative stare. Tough stuff.

Both films have very hard pills-to-swallow for topics: one is about the struggle of prisoners of war while the other deals with the crisis of deviant sexual behavior. Hard topics aren’t often found in theatres so it is so refreshing to see a direction that doesn’t pick subject matter that cater to the crowds. So it was a nice surprise to see a full house last night.

In regards to style the films followed a cinematography of detail. Frames were full of detail relating to the topics. Each had great montages: in Hunger the scene of “the fucking Bastard” comes to mind, where prisoners start destroying their cells after been given civilian cloths in a taunting manner; in Shame, its the removal of the porn. They also each had long takes of the central character, allowing the audience to really see them as they were. Style.

One has to ask, does two films alone make the stamp for Auteurship? I would probably make the safe bet and say, yes. He has delivered films that keep a style and a narrative that has been, lately, only been touched by McQueen. McQueen indicated in 2008 that he was a filmmaker to watch. His films aren’t something you take a first date to, no; but they are films that with every revisit their meaning sets another tone to your perspective on life. Make sure to check out Shame as it comes out today.

BLACKOUT TIME. INTERNET STRIKE!!!!!!!!!!!! Any readers from the US of A make sure to TWEET, WRITE, SHOUT, CALL, KICK, SCREAM to your congress wo/man for your rights for freedom of speech on the internet. For Canadians make sure to firstly readMichael Geist’s words on SOPA and how it will affect Canadians here:<—– click there and then write to your MP regarding Bill C-11. Wish I could blackout my site but unfortunately…work calls.

I’ve been thinking about the artist. That isn’t uncommon for someone like me. With the thought of the artist comes the thought of originality. I remember sitting in English class in University and the discussions of the death of originality springing up. This idea deeply unsettled me. The end of creativity meant the end of exploration. And that’s a pretty sad thought. So I am revisiting some works that have been re-mixed into art.

There is:

- Girl Talk – an artist who breaks all the rules with his illegal music.

- Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody has been said to be a pastiche of operatic style.

- “Weird Al” Yankovic whole career has been to parody famous singles. (Art? Sure, why not?)

- Joyce Carol Oats re-wrote the “Turn of the Screw”, kept themes and title but used her own words and style (another pastiche).

-Quentin Tarantino – Who’s style is all about reference. Check-out Electric Method’s Mixtape.

I can list others but my bed time is coming fast.

I can appreciate re-mixed art where appropriation is the intention. So I am going to have to revisit the artist. I am just wondering if I should use my Cineplex gift certificate or not. But for now I am going to re-visit some Oats before slumber overtakes this body.

MORE LATER.

Thinker, 2008 Dana Schutz - first seen in Vitamin P2 taken from the net.

Fist City T-Shirt $15 @ http://kierfist.chipin.com/kiers-top-surgery

Last night I had the opportunity to attend the CHEST FEST FUNDRAISER, at Broken City, which was part of a running Top Surgery Fund campaign for Kier Fist. I am sure there are a group of none rock’n'rollers who don’t really know who Kier Fist is. Well firstly, he’s an artist from Lethbridge, AB who has been part of the music scene in Southern Alberta since conception (seriously). He’s currently in a band called Fist City with his twin sister Brittany Fist and good pals Evan Van Reekum and Ryan Grieves.  And secondly he’s an all round awesome dude who I feel lucky to call my friend (awww sappy thoughts). The fundraiser was a giant success not only monetary wise but it also made a beautiful example of how great the power of people coming together for a cause really is, plus the bands were a riot: Fist City, Soft Option and Sorry.

There was only one glitch in the night and it was something most of us were unfortunately expecting. We had the unnecessary task of being forced to argue with someone who didn’t understand the need for such a fundraiser. The incident really testified to the fact that a number of people aren’t thinking about transgender issues at all and can easily mistake this sort of fundraiser and surgery as unnecessary.

Let me make this blatantly clear: this sort of fundraiser is just as important and necessary as any other fundraiser, like cancer or AIDS, is. Being Transgender isn’t a main stream mentality so I do understand why people are not talking about it over coffee (even though we should be). Most people aren’t aware of the issues, process and trials & tribulations that come with a transition. To begin with, top surgery is not covered in Alberta’s health care plan and can cost an individual up to $8000.00 (including the cost of travel/hotel). Not only is the surgery costly but the medical aid in Alberta is limited. According to www.AlbertaTrans.org there are only two practicing psychiatrists in Alberta who can give the green light to an individual wanting to transition. An individual wanting to transition not only has to be diagnosed with Gender Identity Disorder (Disorder? Right. Even our language needs to be re-examined) but they also need to be put on a hormone therapy program by an endocrinologist. It is a long process and I’ve been seriously disappointed with the lack of support Alberta has given to the transgender community.

Not only does the government of Alberta send the message of being unsupportive so does the medical community of Alberta (oh, 2012).  So there’s reason number 1 for such a fundraiser. A fundraiser for Top Surgery just highlights a need for government and medical support. The second reason comes from the argument that erupted at the fundraiser: we need to start changing our views on transgenderism. We need to start talking about it more so the government and the medical community start putting its support behind those who wish to become who they really are. But above all that we need to put ourselves behind the cause and see it as a human rights issue. I am glad that I went to the fundraiser to see a part of Calgary’s community come out and support. I was even more glad to see all the artwork and t-shirts that were bought & taken home by those who attended. Pesky argument put aside, the night was a success but it would’ve been greater if all of Calgary’s community would’ve came out to stand up for human rights. Its time Alberta.

The first and biggest issue:

Realizing that I have an irrational need to always buy a deal, no matter what the cost.

Second, the Mink itself. The poor, poor animal that died so I could look ridiculously evil in was a weasel like animal who was pretty adorable (…I feel guilty). The mink most likely played in the sun with friends and liked to swim in the Hudson Bay until it became trapped by a pine box or something. And now, look!, it is part of my closet…sorta.

I remember my seventh grade social teacher announcing to the class one day that she bought a Mink sable and was not ashamed of it! It was recycled, no recent animal had died, what was the harm? I’m a big fan of recycling, so I held onto the thing on the way to the dressing room.

…Then there was “the Mink coat suits me. It brings out aspects of my personality! It adds colour, flavor even! Who doesn’t like flavor”. The purchase was close.

Blouse after blouse I kept glancing at the thing. It stared back. But deep, deep inside there was that nagging third complication: MY POLITICAL IDENTITY. DUN DUN DUN! It nagged like silent termites. I.Don’t.Like.The.THOUGHT. OF TERMITES!!!!!!

My political identity has always been something I’ve always felt righteous about. Well, until the last years of University that is. I had been and still are disturbed by injustices done to the environment and humanity. Would buying an old fur coat make all my sympathies trivial?

A last glance had me calling an exterminator. The need to buy something ludicrous had set in so deep that I had fooled myself into justifying my purchase. I convinced myself that I would never wear it so I had to buy it. I do buy things that I never wear all the time…I just stare at them or…uh take pictures?

Bourgeois Lab

The Friday of the evil purchase I realized that I needed to change. If I forked over thirty bucks that I could’ve (and should have) used for groceries I wasn’t going to just let it stink up my closet. Oh no, it was going to add its particular flavor to my world. I went to work with it. Out to lunch with a close friend. For a drink at a local pub. But that wasn’t enough! It needed to go out on the town. It needed: the CASINO.

The fur needed to prance around with the big boys. It needed to be around boys that thought they had money fooled. “Like I had my fur under control”, haha. But I got stuck watching a horrible Caribbean stud game where a very wealthy couple hogged the whole space and wouldn’t let anyone else into the table. The woman kept one stiletto foot on the ground while the other one was wedged into her seat, her knee, ass and fake boobs were all over the table; while her plastic-surgery-gone-array honey kept feeding her chips. She was wearing a fur vest. The gin and tonic was gone.

So I went home and took off my fur coat and glanced down at my shirt’s print of a chimpanzee. The token black and white image of an animal always felt very laboratory to me. The potent irony of the outfit fell out of favor.

Every human being has a relationship with an animal. Whether it is as removed as: you go into grocery store and buy animal or if its as close as your cuddles with your cat, we are affected by animals. And I will be damned if I become a bitch that takes too much and doesn’t even care if her limbs get in the way.

“Fur Farming” is a big industry here in Canada, the fifth biggest farming industry in Canada, actually. Pelts are graded and sold at auction houses. Grading takes two to five days and only a person with a magical eye and snout can determine such luxury. I can’t be a part of that tradition. And the fur coat was a link to it. I glance back at my seventh grade social studies teacher and think: you got gypped. The fur coat ended up being moldy anyway (mother’s eyes know best).

The day had been so booooring that I started re-reading a journal I started while in Paris. I really hate finance and I am sure the sentiment is felt among many of my peers who are having their fair share of finance drama (I know quite a few of humanitarian studies’ majors).

The journal turned out to be the money maker of the day. It triggered thoughts that I was beginning to explore while touring the Louvre, D’Orsay, Musee Rodin and the small crowded rooms of Marmottan. I remember starting the entry at a cafe nearby my place of residency, where upon first landing I had an opportunity to feast on this, uuuuuuuugh. But the waiter was cute enough so I kept coming back. It was an afternoon spent alone to write down a couple thoughts.

The trip had afforded many experiences to write about: an escape from an Amsterdam flight scam, being harassed by two young boys (who had mildly stalked a friend and I while on our way to the local flea market) and of course, breathing/experiencing historical art.

The stalking incident, I remember, had turned into a detour to a positive experience of hot coffee and croissants (even though our coffee cups quivered a little on the way to our rouge lips). The morning, the trip had left me buzzing. I had just been stalked (as a JOKE..?), had had the French coffee piss scared out of me; but had surprisingly bounced back…local Parisian flea markets will do that to a girl. The incident was just a reminder of  these “minor” incidents that become normalized into a girl’s daily experience. We bounced back, no biggie, nevermind our shakes…right.

Looking over the journal, one of the main things I had managed to scribble all over were the words BREASTS, NAKED and GLARE.

We had taken two days to tour the Louvre and on each of the days we had seen countless naked women mostly portrayed in a fashion that caused me to yawn. “Here we have woman, naked, back turned to us, elongated neck and backbone to derive eloquence, eyes looking downwards to evoke submissive pose” was one dominate example of an examined naked woman. The Louvre also had: Saintly here is my boob; I am Mother, I breast feed, boob; Hi! we are Royal cousins and she is with-child nipple pinch, boob. Boobs everywhere.

It comes to no surprise that one of the biggests cultural institution has kept the classification of woman as modern as old as its 910 year old structure. It hasn’t bothered to put ancient ideas to bed, just women. And really, why should it? It continues to ignore the feminist outcry just as the mass majority of women in today’s world do. I know many women who do believe in feminism but find it difficult to admit it or even define it.  No wonder our idea of Woman is slightly skewed. Cultural institutions are mirror reflections of society;  sooo, what’s up Louvre? Even after the Guerrilla girls had invaded the space, it continues to define women as Daumiere’s caricatures.

The work isn’t displayed in a manner that challenges the idea that woman is object. Displayed as a historical moment in history? Yes. But when will we retire this perpetual image? And what does it say to mount such images as beacons of historical thought? Don’t those beacons bleed into modern mainstream outlooks? When will we discontinue disguising art history’s misogyny with the rise of technique, form or style? When will we stop upholding a sexist history?

October was Violence Against Women Awareness month. Statcan states that “Gender-based violence is perhaps the most wide-spread and socially tolerated of human rights violations. It both reflects and reinforces inequities between men and women and compromises the health, dignity, security and autonomy of its victims.” Like it or not, when big boys like the Louvre keep perpetuating images of docile creatures of “Woman” it becomes increasingly difficult to change the inequalities of society. Art is suppose to be the forerunner of ideas, innovation and style. Is it so much to want to see the institutions of art reflect that? The Louvre was a major disappointment. Thank God for the Marmottan.

So big shock that I gravitated towards my tragically acquired copy of La Cabina, co-directed and starred by Jose Luis Lopez Vazquez, last tonight. When I first consumed this short 35 minute film I was to busy watching my- partner-in-crime-of-that-time to really take it in (yeah, the face next to me was slightly more fascinating than the film playing…it happens to the best of us) but I do remember watching the last 7 minutes of the film in complete horror. I’ll refrain from spoilers.

It amazes me that Jose Luis Lopez Vazquez and Antonio Mercero could fit so many aspect of life (and now history) in the short minutes of this film. From its creepy gawking crowd (perhaps the creepiest part of the film, talk about a lack of community or…the formation of a weird one) to its expanding shots of “modernity” in Spain. And to boot, the film doesn’t step away from itself. The film is simply about a man’s tragic experience of being stuck in a phone booth and before we even jog ourselves over to Hollywood, I don’t even remember the Hollywood, whatever that was by the same title Farrell shoot-off pickle. (La Cabina means: booth – box like home, cabin – so duh, hence: “the Phone booth”). The film was simply about a suit Spaniard in a Spanish phone booth and the result of such entrapment.

This film was made in the last years of the Franco regime and during a time of economic crisis within Spain –as of present, Spain is still in an economic crisis, just watch Volver and see how hard Penelope Cruz works for her familia. With a rich history of revolutionary movements how can it not produce something like La Cabina? The viewer is suppose to be left contemplating how the technology of the phone booth will affect the pedestrian filled streets of Spain’s cities. Since we are a viewer that’s 39 years to young we know:  it isn’t pretty.

-K

"Little Buffalo - Summer Camp Trip 2011"

"Little Buffalo - Summer Camp Trip 2011

To most Western women the Burqa/Hijab/Abaya/Boushiya/Buknuk/Chador/Dupatta/Khimar/Milfeh/Niqab is seen as a symbol of hate. Something that keeps woman from coming to understand their complete identity. The development of a complete human being’s identity is their understanding of their sexuality, whether it has power or not. This complete understanding to a Western Woman means complete freedom. So, this ban was seen as a win for liberty. But why do I have a sour taste in my mouth?

One of the main reasons the taste of sour milk lingers in my mouth is the thought that keeps on creeping inside of my mind. The idea of a caged animal being whipped. If France’s government was really thinking about Women’s rights they would’ve thought of the woman already caged within their Burka. These women already have a limited engagement with the public. To further scrutinize just seems unreasonable and stupid.

As a Westerner, I cannot understand why anyone would want to live behind the veil. Worse, I couldn’t imagine seeing myself as just an object of a man’s desire or wife. And to think that I’m the root of many evils, because I can possess scrutinizing facial expressions and give birth? Many of my facial expressions are separated from my sexuality, if you could imagine that! Yes, the veil would hold back any awkward stares I might penetrate onto whatever shag I desire (insert eye-roll) but I consider my sexual identity to be part of my identity as a whole. There are so many facial expressions needed in my daily life to fully communicate with my co-workers, friends and family.  That to have that taken away from me seems sinful.  But I’ve never immigrated from a distant land to land in the land of the free. I feel as though I cannot impose my ideas of freedom on those Women who arrive in a Western country and choose to continue their traditions that seem oppressive to me.

I think of the time in Ottawa while riding the bus and sitting across a young girl wearing a Burka. Face covered and all in black. And I remember not being able to look her straight in the eye because I felt ashamed for her and myself. I couldn’t imagine being that girl and being so severed. The shame came from not being able to imagine a way of helping her either.  We sat across each other looking beyond each other as the landscapes of our Nation’s Capital rolled by. I thought of France and how sorry I felt for the girls living in France who had the Burka bestowed upon them by mothers and grandmothers. Whose Father’s believed it was the only way for a girl to dress in order to live a pure life. And the taste of sour milk happened and the girl before my eyes disappeared.

The banning has brought about many complexities of the way a society works and I really do feel that some of it needs unveiling. France is not the only country in Europe that faces a crisis. It has a lot to do with race but mostly it has to do with Political infiltration. The West does not want to meet the East. Just look at Sweden’s ban on the Minarets on Mosques. Because of instability in the middle East Western Europe has had immigration problems. Walk into Montmartre, Paris and discover not only the Moulin Rouge but hundreds of Arab men hanging out. These sort of bans are happening because there is a major culture crash happening in Europe. Why?

More people need to start asking themselves the question, Why is this happening?