Fashion is one of the very few forms of expression in which women have more freedom than men. And I don’t think it’s an accident that it’s typically seen as shallow, trivial, and vain. It is the height of irony that women are valued for our looks, encouraged to make ourselves beautiful and ornamental… and are then derided as shallow and vain for doing so. And it’s a subtle but definite form of sexism to take one of the few forms of expression where women have more freedom, and treat it as a form of expression that’s inherently superficial and trivial. Like it or not, fashion and style are primarily a women’s art form. And I think it gets treated as trivial because women get treated as trivial.
"Cameras are soul keepers"
Bill Viola on concepts in his work- amazing!
If you have half an hour to burn, spend it this way.
Tonight, I decide, is the night I will succeed.
I’ll walk across the stiff peaks,
kneel in the sand,
and tell her how it ends.
The gulls scream that I’m coming,
but she doesn’t listen, or understand.
She squints against the sky,
shoos them away,
thinking they’re trying to steal her chips.
The sun blazes, roars in my ears,
bores into my thoughts –
like every time before.
She pulls a pudgy hand up as a visor,
scowls at me, and my funny clothes
for a second, then folds
to inspect her sandcastle better.
Bent like a tree frog, toes spread
and anchored firmly to the earth
she starts smoothing down the walls
and asks who I am.
I tell her I’m from the future and she laughs,
eyes shining with images of tin foil jeans
and sky skimming cars.
Where’s your dad?
She gestures to a tall man at the shore,
distant and black against the horizon.
His hands are full with melting ice cream,
and a little boy’s hand.
If she’s six, he’s three,
and their dad’s about to leave.
I wipe at my flaking forehead, grimace at my palms.
My heart burns in my throat.
I haven’t got long.
Her mum sups at a can of pop,
eyes smooth behind iridescent sunglasses
reflecting iridescent sea.
They’re all so happy, I think.
Condensation slides down the can.
I salivate. I ache.
I can’t bring myself to ruin this humble moment
that stretches before me.
So I look down at the sand
as my toes and this vital memory curl
back on themselves.
I regenerate, thicken, solidify above.
On my return I find the crowd entranced by the screen, oblivious
to the timer counting down in the corner as I watch
myself watching myself crumble into ash again.