What about The Mens?

May 29, 2014 //
2

The name Elliot Rodger has become synonymous with misogyny and fear. Bringing further to light the hate and aggression that women suffer on a daily basis, Elliot Rodger took violence against women to the extreme. Women live in a world where they refuse to walk home alone after dark. When going on a first date, men are typically afraid of being rejected, and women are typically afraid of being raped. The society we live in perpetuates violence against women, and that is the society wherein we place our daughters and sisters.

However, walking home alone after dark, you are more likely to be attacked if you are a man than if you are a woman. Here is a link to the Indicators of Well-Being in Canada website that shows that the total of all violent offenses against men (including sexual assault, physical assault, and robbery) is higher than against women: http://www4.hrsdc.gc.ca/.3ndic.1t.4r@-eng.jsp?iid=61

Of course, sexual assault is higher against women, surprise surprise, but overall violence is more likely to occur if you have a penis than if you don’t.

So why are women terrified when they are actually safer than men? Well, that society we live in also perpetuates fear. The term “rape culture” gets thrown around in feminist dialogues every now and then, and what that means is that the predominant culture is one that seemingly allows, or even endorses, rape through its imagery and popular dialogue. For example, that US senator who spoke about “legitimate rape”, or images in the media of sexual abuse against women, all these things combined create a culture where violence against women is seen as the norm. A culture like that is bound to make anyone just a tiny bit afraid of going out alone after dark.

The overwhelming response against the massacre that Elliot Rodger’s committed plays into that fear. Women are coming forward on twitter with the hashtag #YesAllWomen to tell stories of the abuses that they’ve suffered. I’m not saying that these women are lying, nor am I saying that what happens to women on a daily basis is horrible. What I’m saying is that the celebration of victimhood and the perpetuation of fear is the wrong approach to actually solving these problems.

So I bet you thought I was going to get all “Men’s Rights”, and “We need to focus on The Mens!”  when I mentioned that men are attacked more often than women. And I am, kind of. In keeping with the anecdotal tradition of #YesAllWomen, I asked all the guys I work with if they had ever been in a fight. I was met with shock; not that it was an offensive question, but because the answer was so obvious that I shouldn’t even have needed to ask. Yes. They had all been in fights. One guy answered, “Yeah, a couple” and another alluded to having been in many. Violence among men is SO STANDARD that asking about it is meaningless.

So in regard to our boy Elliot, let’s focus on The Mens. Instead of asking, “Why are women being assaulted?” let’s ask, “Why are men assaulting women?” Let’s include men, even just the term, in the dialogue when it comes to violence against women.

Let’s look at Elliot Rodger without mentioning anything feminine. He is a man, he is socially isolated, feels humiliated, and has access to guns. Doesn’t that look just a teeny bit similar to every instance of a school shooting? Of, you know, most mass killings?

There is a common thread between violence against men and the violence against women, and that is that it is violence being committed by men. This is the issue that needs dealing with. Not making women terrified so that first dates are even harder for us guys than necessary, but getting to the root of why men are committing violence.

The first question that I asked about why women are being assaulted. The #YesAllWomen trend. Most media dialogue regarding violence against women. They all ignore men. It seems as though women are the issue here, and the old gun logic of “If everyone had a penis, then none of this would have happened!” becomes the somewhat facetious solution to these problems.

Or you could look at what actually caused this violence in the first place. Maybe let’s curb access to guns, develop a more socially inclusive society, have easier access to mental health therapy, or maybe adjust our culture to one that doesn’t glorify violence in masculinity.

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Categories Gender and Sexuality

The Death of Art

Apr 28, 2014 //
0

Art is a powerful thing. Its definition is hard to pin down, and many people disagree on what Art actually is. (I am capitalizing Art because I want to differentiate between what you might see in the funny papers and something you’d see in a gallery) One might not think that taking a shit in a can is Art, and yet Piero Manzoni produced that exact piece, and managed sell his cans of poo for hundreds of thousands of dollars. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artist’s_shit)  I’m not saying that someone willing to buy something as Art defines it as such, but merely trying to point out that there are wide ranges as to its definition. I believe Art to be something that inspires or evokes emotion or debate. However, I’ll add the caveat that it must also be labelled Art. A sunset can evoke emotion, or a freezing homeless person could provoke debate, but unless somebody refers to it as Art, then it will never be considered as such. I’m not going to say that Art must be created, because I believe that you can come across something that moves you in some way and decide for yourself that even if it wasn’t man-made, it could be Art. Just because the sunset isn’t photographed doesn’t make it any less beautiful, so why would it be any less Art?

I started off by saying that Art can be incredibly powerful. It can be used to convert the viewer to the artist’s point of view, or ignite the convictions of someone who already agrees. The Death of Marat is an example of such a painting created by Jacques-Louis David that helped fuel the French Revolution. It depicts the assassination of a French revolutionary leader, if you don’t care to peruse my upcoming link.  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_Marat) David was an ardent member of the Revolution as well, and his paintings were great propaganda against the monarchy. This painting in particular made a martyr out of Marat, and in the end, the Republic was triumphant and King Louis XVI was killed. I’m not saying that David single-handedly overthrew a king with his artwork, but his paintings certainly helped inspire the revolutionary spirit of the Republicans.

Art is obviously more than just propaganda for revolution, but I believe The Death of Marat to be a prime example of just how much effect Art can have on the world. Today we exist in a culture where Art has been confined to the gallery. Powerful, provocative work is being produced, but the Art world has become more elitist than ever. Through the creation of Modern Art (a term that often evokes scorn and derision with comments along the lines of “my five year old could do that!”) the messages being created are not being received by the general population. Today’s Art is perceived as pretentious, or dreck, or incomprehensible, or without effort, or even as not-Art.  In short, it is inaccessible to most people. Think about it: how many contemporary visual artists can you name, and compare that number to how many Renaissance artists you can name. Remember, if you can name the Ninja Turtles, you know at least four. This obviously doesn’t work if you studied this stuff with a focus on contemporary artists, but even you might appreciate the layperson’s ignorance of today’s Art scene.

There are theories as to what caused the shift from the representationalism of the Renaissance to the abstract, post-modern Art world today. For example, when the camera became commercially available, painters could no longer compete with the realism of a photograph, so they began to experiment; playing with form, colour, process, etc.  and thus was born the Expressionist movement, to Cubism, etc. until Art evolved into what we see today. Also, up until recently, artists were trained by masters in a traditional apprenticeship, so their artwork would generally turn out at least similarly to their teacher’s. Today, the focus is on doing something new and unique; experimentation instead of traditionalism.

Whatever happened, the general population is no longer taking part in the discussion that Art creates. That discussion now takes place in an echo chamber filled with fellow artists, art critics, and those with so-called “high-brow” tastes.

The rest of us are left with the dregs. The everyday consumption of art today consists of television, music, and film. While some might argue that there is still meaning to be had in these mediums, I would argue that that is not the case due to the emphasis of entertainment over content.

Even those films that manage to sneak some meaning into their plots cannot have as much effect on the population as true Art (Yes I realize how pretentious this sounds. Shut up). Since a film is seen in the context of entertainment, the meaning is taken far less seriously. For example, the movie Saving Private Ryan was considered by some to be an anti-war film with strong messages against violence. However, it certainly did not lead to any sort of paradigm shift in American culture. At best, films today with messages will cause viewers to chew their popcorn slightly more pensively, but they will inevitably go home unchanged.

Music is in a similar boat. Popular music today is created for the purpose of dancing. Rather than lead to any sort of revelation, music is created to have a narcotic effect on the brain, causing listeners to lose their inhibitions on a dance floor. Yes there is underground music that has meaning outside of cheating boyfriends or the great love a man has for his truck, but it is far enough away from the mainstream to not have any particular effect. The closest example I can think of off the top of my head might be Same Love by Macklemore, but it has been criticized as simply being a marketing ploy. Again, even if there were a legitimate message, because it is within the context of entertainment, it will be scrutinized and watered down until it is rendered meaningless.

Television merits little clarification. I’m pretty sure it’s common knowledge that the brain is more active during sleep than it is while watching television.

Capitalism has also had its dirty little fingers in the destruction of Art. It is not necessarily the fault of these mediums that their production is devoted to meaningless content, but what is being produced is being produced to be sold, and that has a distinct effect on what sort of messages are being conveyed.

Don’t get me wrong. I love music, movies, and even television. The world needs distractions, because too much activism can lead to despair and nobody wanting to talk to you at parties. But the world needs Art too.

Art is meant to be the lens that focuses the eye of the viewer on the world, not to distract from it. And as that lens, Art can affect the world in ways that no other method of communication can.

Think of it this way. Say you wanted the rights of the disabled to be at the forefront of political discourse. You want to know the easiest way to do that? Go and shoot out the lower spine of every single person in the country. If literally every single person were disabled, those ramps would be up by the end of the day.

But you don’t have to shoot out the spines of everybody, just a loved one of everybody. When people feel an intimate connection with somebody, they are willing to fight for that person. Plus then you’d only have to hit every family instead of every person, and it would save you a great deal of time.

Or whaddia know, without resorting to massive amounts of violence, Art is a means of evoking strong emotional reactions in people. Connections can be made, convictions can be forged, and passions can be brought to the surface simply by creating the appropriate piece of Art. If enough people are influenced by it, it could change the world.

So. The question is: how the fuck do you make Art that everybody can relate to? How can an individual even put out something that will reach the millions of people that make up our population?

The obvious answer is the internet, but even the internet has its own problems. That piece of world-changing Art being put on the internet would be a beautiful unique snowflake… caught in the middle of a blizzard.

The problem with the internet is the deluge of information that is created and put out every day. Rather than being placed in the context of entertainment, information on the internet has its own disadvantage of being seen in the context of trivialness due to overabundance.

So how? I honestly don’t know the answer. Street Art is one solution that I came up with, but I don’t know how effective that might be. It would need to be provocative enough to get people to stop and pay attention, but tame enough to not be alienating.

If anyone reading this has any suggestions or ideas, I would love to hear about them. Either in the comments section, or just get in touch with me if you know me personally, as most of the people reading this do.

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Categories Art

The Holiday

Apr 1, 2014 //
0

Sane.

The word had a funny sound to it, which seemed ironic because so far it seemed pretty dull in comparison to the alternative. I wanted to speak it out loud to see if it sounded as funny as it did in my head, but the two orderlies escorting me out might begin to start disagreeing with my new diagnosis if I started talking to myself.

I didn’t exactly come in to this asylum under the most orthodox of circumstances, so when I got to the front desk, they gave me clothes provided by the city for me to change into. My new too-big jeans and Knights t-shirt felt awkward and uncomfortable compared to the gown I had grown accustomed to, but this was my life now, and it was just something I would have to get used to.

The receptionist told me that I would have to contact a Ms. Thompkins as soon as I reached my new residence, and then gave me a card with a phone number on it. I put the card in the back pocket of my new jeans, and thanked her.

I walked out the front door for the first time in a long time completely on my own. No orderlies, no doctors, no day passes. Home free. I giggled at the absurdity of it, and curtsied to the guard at the door. Suddenly I felt embarrassed. Do sane people curtsy? Had I just blown years of struggle and hard work just by partaking in a silly, theatrical gesture? Luckily the guard smiled, and gave his own garish bow. I decided that I liked this man, but there was still something just a tiny bit off about him. Was it the way he smiled at me? Was there condescension? I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I hurried out through the gate, and sat down onto the bench to wait for the bus.

Riding the bus, I saw my city in a whole new light. Not just because I hadn’t seen it in years, but because I was literally seeing it from a whole new perspective. It was quieter, which was nice. There was still the traffic, the yelling, the music, the laughing, and the regular city noise, but there was no pounding in my head. No screaming in my ear drums. Unfortunately it also seemed less vibrant. The colours weren’t bouncing off the walls; the lights weren’t dancing across the sky… Everything seemed a bit greyer. I looked down at my clothes and tugged at them, trying to adjust them into a more comfortable position, before giving up to suffer in silence.

I wasn’t sure if I liked this new reality, and I wondered if that meant that my new-found sanity was under any kind of threat. I concluded that since I didn’t actually feel like hurting anybody, then I must be fine. Maybe the way to tell if you’re sane is if you’re unhappy with the way the world looks to you. It would certainly explain how miserable normal people always seem to be.

Normal people. I had to remind myself that I fit into that category now too. I giggled again. It wasn’t so bad. At least there was still laughter.

I got to my new apartment, generously provided again by my great city. They worked so hard for me, trying to make me better. I made a mental note to do something to give back. Maybe I’d bake a cake for the mayor. People still like cakes, right? I perused the kitchen to see what I had to deal with. I wasn’t sure if I had everything I needed for any baking right off the bat, and I looked through my pots and pans to see if I would need to do any shopping. As I staked out my kitchen, I saw something that stopped me cold. There was small collection of knives hanging innocuously off a magnetic strip on the side of a cupboard. I hadn’t seen anything sharp for so long, and here were half a dozen knives, glinting in the fading afternoon sun. The hospital didn’t even allow plastic knives while we ate, and preferred to give us food in bite-sized pieces. But now…

I wanted to test one. To see if it really was sharp. To see if it could… cut something. I scoured the fridge for an apple, or… or, anything. Just to see. There was a small supply of oranges in the crisper down at the bottom, and I pulled one out. My palms were sweaty as I placed the blade of one of the knives on top of the glistening orange. I made the smallest incision into its orange flesh, before dropping the knife and running out of the kitchen, my hands shaking.

It wasn’t the sharpest blade I had ever used, but it would do. It would… I could… I could make the cake. I could definitely make a cake.

That night I dreamed of oranges wearing ill-fitting clothing. Not really a nightmare, but still a dream I felt good waking up from.

The next morning I decided I needed to give a boost to the ol’ self-esteem. And what better way for a girl to feel better about herself than to spend her allocated welfare on clothing! Retail therapy. They don’t teach you that in an asylum!

I walked to the mall. The traffic seemed louder today. The honks and engine coughs echoed inside of my skull, bouncing off my brain pan. I covered my ears and focused on the grey sidewalk.

I got to the mall and wandered blindly for almost three hours. Finally, on my second time passed this one dress shop, I saw a cute little number hanging on the back wall. It was bright, crimson red, with a subtle black pattern running down the sides. It seemed to glow on the rack, and I asked if I could try it on.

It fit me perfectly. I couldn’t believe how amazing I felt in this dress, this colour. I twirled around in the fitting room, and laughed at the way that it flared at the bottom. I needed this dress.

I walked out of the store, only to be followed by a voice calling out, “Excuse me, Miss?” It turned out I hadn’t actually paid for the dress. I stumbled through an apology; I felt so natural in the dress that I had forgotten it wasn’t mine. The clerk laughed awkwardly as she rang me through. Her fake politeness irked me. Her fake laugh. I stared at her in disgust as she took my money. Her smile was all wrong.

I walked back home. When I arrived, there was a flashing red light on my answering machine. There were three messages from a Dr. Thompson or something telling me I was late or that I was supposed to be somewhere. It didn’t seem important, and if it was, I’m sure she would call back again.

I sat down at my kitchen table. The orange was still on my counter, its wound gaping. Its juices pooled underneath it. Fruit flies had begun buzzing around it like vultures, picking away at a fresh corpse.

I needed to get out of here.

I decided I wanted to go dancing. Loud music always drowned out my thoughts. I needed to… I needed to drown them out.

I got to the club, and immediately threw back two shots of tequila. Government-funded mind numbing therapy. I had burned through all of my monthly welfare cheque in a single day, but somehow that seemed unimportant. I headed to the dance floor. The press of bodies made me feel claustrophobic, but I didn’t mind. It reminded me of the asylum. The feel of the walls closing in on me. The stink of sweaty flesh mixed with barely-controlled madness.

I felt something grinding into my thigh and turned around. It was a fairly attractive young man, all his arrogance showing in his wolfish grin. He said to me, “Hey doll, you look hot. What say you and I find some place quiet to sit and chat?”

He had a malicious glint in his eye. I could see trouble in the teeth of his smile. I followed him. I wanted to see what he was capable of.

We sat down in the lounge area of the club, and he just started talking. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, so I had no way of replying. I don’t think I needed to. I was entranced by his smile. The smile of a predator. A wild dog gaining on his prey. I guess he caught me staring at his mouth, because he stopped talking and looked at me quizzically. I just said to him, “How about we go back to my place?” This brought back the smile, and we left together.

We got back to my apartment and started making out. His hands groped my body and I tried to ignore how incompetently he did so. All of a sudden he stopped. “What is that?” I looked over to see the orange, penetrated with every single knife I owned.

Funny, I didn’t remember doing that.

He asked me again, “What the hell is that??” His smile was gone, and suddenly I felt cold.

“Smile,” I said.

“What?”

“Smile!”

“What is wrong with you?? Are you crazy or something!?”

He seemed angry, but not the fun kind of angry. I kicked him hard in between his legs, and screamed at him as he collapsed onto the ground. “I SAID FUCKING *SMILE*!” He groaned, as tears started welling up in the corner of his eyes.

I lightly jumped over his writhing body, and took the paring knife out of the orange pulp. This was detail work, not requiring any heavy lifting. It would do just nicely.

I sat down on his chest and gently tried to calm him down. His eyes were wide and frantic, staring at the knife I had in my hand. I looked at it, then back at him, and told him not to worry. I would fix everything and make it all better.

I gingerly placed the blade inside his mouth, and slit both of his cheeks wide open.

“There, see? All better! Look at those pearly whites!!”

He screamed and screamed as crimson rivers of his blood flowed freely down his face. The noise was agony. I couldn’t stand it. The pounding in my head was like the pacing drum of a war ship. I grabbed a chair from next to the table, and smashed it on the ground. With one of the splintered legs, I bashed the boy’s head into the white floor tiles. The red was a nice addition to the drab apartment.

I called the police, and told them to come take me home. I hoped they arrived first, before he did.

I hummed a tune to myself, and started painting the walls: a nice scenic landscape, with a house, some flowers, and a smiling sun. Too bad I only had the one colour.

The familiar sounds of nearing sirens let me know that it was almost time. I would be back in the asylum, but I would be out of this grey, lifeless world. I choose my own reality, and I choose the one with colour.

The door crashes in, and armed police officers roughly tackle me to the ground. I don’t put up a struggle. Comments are made to the “horror” I have inflicted, and one officer refers to me as a “monster.” I don’t mind. They content themselves with their fake, meaningless existences, and I content myself with my vibrant and luminescent one. They brusquely force me into the cruiser outside. It wasn’t awful, this brief foray into sanity, but I wouldn’t miss it. It’s time to return home.

I wonder if my Puddin’ is waiting for me.

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Categories Fun
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