Because my middle name is "tasteful"

Holy Crap

Tracie is totally right about this girl!



I FOUND HER!

I don't know how I could have forgotten this

Maybe it's because it took me almost a year to finally get around to discussing it here, but I totally forgot about the BEST PART of this story:

So immediately after class I called my sister who I had a missed call from.

Amy: OH MY GOD.

Me: No, me first! Seriously, oh MY god.

Amy: Ugh. Fine go.


So I tell her the whole story. It takes the entire twenty minute walk home.

(and keep in mind, I'm really upset. I've been on the verge of tears for at least an hour now.)

I finally make it home and kick off my shoes. I'm barefoot and feeling the tiniest, tiniest bit better. I finish my story.

Amy: That sucks, it's my turn.

Me: Fine, go.

Amy starts talking about whatever the hell it is Amy wanted to talk about and I take about three steps into the kitchen. I feel something. Immediately I know what it is.

It's a dead animal.

I don't even put my entire weight on my bare foot against dead, furry OOZING animal before I LOSE MY SHIT.

I collapse onto the floor in a fit of uncontrollable sobs. I cannot speak. I cannot even breathe. I cannot even pronounce the words DEAD BAT for at least 2 minutes.

Me: (incoherent, possibly dieing)

Amy: What? What's going on?! STOP IT. You had your turn! Listen to me!

Me: (I don't know if I was even breathing at this point. I just had the worst day of my graduate experience and now there is DEAD BAT residue on my BARE FOOT)

I writhe on the floor. The cat is confused.

Me: Whimper. Ok, I'm OK.

I look at the bat and start sobbing again. At this point instead of giving a shit about the fact that I am having a major emotional breakdown, my sister starts screaming the second half of her story to me. I am still crying and haven't taken a full breath in at least five minutes.

Amy tells her her story (whatever the HELL it was about) and I pull it (hardly) together.

She finishes and I grab a paper towel to scoop up the dead bat and toss in the kitchen trash can.

Me: That sucks. Ok, I need to go take a two hour shower now.

Amy: Ok, I'll talk to you later.

Me: Ok, bye.

In relation to the previous post:

John showed this piece I made a while ago to his Digital Imaging class in preparation for their mapping project. He told them, "This is a map of the female body."


























I should have yelled across the lab that, "No, it's a pornographic body. THAT'S THE WHOLE POINT... pornographic, not female. Totally different."


I didn't.

I should have.



I should do a lot more yelling.

Feeling nostalgic for my Feminism and Visual Culture days

There is a professor here who likes to proclaim that he is guided in all he does by Katie Grace ****'s breasts.

This professor is male, white, straight, able-bodied and tenured. Katie Grace **** is a graduate student who put on a performance piece where she read from sheets of paper which she would then discard one by one onto the floor. During this process of reading and discarding she seamlessly removed both her shirt and bra and finished the piece bare-chested.

This professor now claims it is Katie Grace ****'s lack of inhibition in her art which inspires him to live his life without feeling the need to fear or censor himself. (See, it's like all his thoughts and ideas are like a woman's breasts, you know, oppressed.)

Unfortunately, this manifests itself as a frequently repeated proclamation that "I am guided in all I do by Katie Grace ****'s breasts."

Seriously.

Though I never saw the performance piece, I can imagine it probably has nothing to do with a white male's liberation of ...something?, thus leading this professor to believe that his own fixation on a younger woman's breasts is all in the name of Art (capital A) and should be both applauded and frequently discussed.

To which my gut reaction is: No. Ugh, no.

And upon further discussion, my reaction remains the same.

Also, to irritate me further, I've never met this artist before, but now Katie Grace *****'s name will forever be linked to her breasts. When I hear her name, I (and you) will think of her breasts. When I meet her I will first be thinking about her breast. And thus Katie Grace **** is reduced to her breasts. Somehow I doubt the point of her piece was to be forever identified this way. Just a hunch.