seeing red

Goldin

I was riding to Ikea when the first thing happened.
an explosion from a power pole scattered
shrapnel of fragile glass above my head.
instinctively i swerved,
missing several small red flames and
minutes later, i felt my blood race faster around my heart.
my body pulsating, i had had a fright.



up ahead a red shield gleamed
urging me to stop for salvation.
a musty, minging smell of worn out clothes and locker room rubbers
accosted me, as I stepped inside.
catching my eye, i picked up a red bandanna and tied it around my neck.
the price tag scraped at my chin and tugging the two ends for release,
only pulled it tighter around my neck.
the knot was jammed. i almost
lost my cheeks in an attempt to urge the red cloth up
and over my head,
it was to small. i felt ridiculous.
i tried to gnaw at the tiny knot with my teeth.
finally i stopped a woman in her tracks
who was wearing navy blue and a red shield.
holding out the knot I showed her my frustrating dilemma.
she didn't help, me nobody did.
ripping the price tag of i handed over $2.75 and left the shop with my red bandanna
tight around my neck.



on my bike again i balanced whilst waiting for the tram doors to close.
a man hovered between the gutter and the kerb.
as i rode passed him he screamed; you fucking MOLE!
Cooly i asked him if he had a hangover today.
riding on my mind switched to replay until, outraged
i turned around to hunt down my hovering horror
and found him behind the bar of the Terminus Hotel.

adrenaline confronted this stranger who's tattooed hand
lifted up the barn door to stand over me.
my question rattled from my throat
as i repeated, why did you have be so aggressive -
what is wrong with you?
after being hustled out of the bar
i rode myself down to the river where i sat
on the bank with my head in my hands and cried.
tears softening my vision until the leaves bled into one another.



returning home i lay down on my side, fell into a deep sleep
and dreamt off turbulent seas tossing ships with bellowing masts,
forgotten anchors and flagons of red red rum.
whence i awoke, my bandanna lay loose on my white pillow
and although one week to soon
i was bleeding......

memory and time

(quest for truth)

Having little experience on the truth of things I make no claim on what is or isn't truth. I have no intention of proclaiming what the truth may or may no be. Being well aware of my limitations affords me no authority to preach much less inform since truly, I have no idea.

So what of my quest?

In truth, the truth I am interested in is not one on the grand scale of things but rather one on the grandeur of self side of things. The truth I am interested in is simply the truth about myself.



To assist me on my quest I need a certain clarity of mind . I need my mind to trace itself back in time and not wander off vacantly as is prone to do at times. For truth about me I need to delve in deep and rummage through the debris of my past. A familiar smell or sound can take all of me; hook, line and sinker into the well of my memory.


As a girl I often spent my day getting on and off double decker buses where I would sit on the top deck racing raindrops down the steamed up window, and although in out of daydreams, I had never been closer to the truth.


The first photograph (top),is a photograph of a photograph taken from a place loaded with memories. Looking at it i am thrown into a somersault of memories that bear no relationship to the photographs origins. This is what has lead me to delve deeper. This is what will assist me in my quest. The act of looking. The act of looking closer and closer still and so on and so forth" />
...remembering.......




‘What is time? If no one asks me, I know it. Upon questioning, I cannot explain it.”

Time and memory. Memory without time has no life. It does not exist. And time does not necessarily provide us with memory. Whenever I think about time my memory instantly begins to fragment. Dissolve. Just as rain on glass blurs my vision, my memory fades.
Blackout.
If I stop thinking about time and simply remember there is no time only memory. My memory traces itself. There are a multitude of moments that formulate a memory. Memory is feeling; sight, smell, sound, touch. Memory is not intellectual. It is distant, intangible, blurry, fragile - emotional.




Memory is paradoxically present while time continues to pass me by and contrary to popular belief; time can never be lost because time has never been found because time just is.

“The part of life we really live is small.
For all the rest of existence is not life, but merely time.”

Memory & Time ( quest for truth)

what the fuck am I looking at?

Feminine: adj. 1. Having qualities traditionally ascribed to woman, especially delicacy and prettiness
Feminism: 1. From 1851 – state of being female
2. From 1895-advocacy of women’s rights

I am looking at myself in context to historical representations of woman, paying particular attention to what is called 'the male gaze'; the idealized representation of women by men within the visual arts. I am looking at the dichotomy of woman as wife/mother/domestic goddess and adulteress/object/prostitute.

In these photographs I am representing the woman and I am representing the self. By investigating the male gaze and using myself as the subject, my intent is to dispel the theory of the gaze concept and somehow take the gaze away from gender. By dispelling the abstract concept of the male gaze I am asking why we should be looking at each other (if indeed we can) not, from the viewpoint of our entrenched ideas, our learned differences in gender, 'female distress and male valour'2, but from the view of our similarities as human beings. In this pursuit I have to first look at myself and I have to look at myself objectively. I have to question; how do I look at myself? With all these layers, all these expectations, how do I look at myself? My sex is female. I am an adult female therefore I am a woman. I am a woman who is not waiting, nor absent or idle. I am not a mother nor am I a wife. I am not an adulteress. Neither am I an object or a prostitute. Upon asking myself who am I , I am met with who I am not. So my question becomes more emphasized within me, within my minds ear until i am bursting with the repetitious mantra; who am I? Who am I? Who am I? Eventually my question takes on more depth, becomes more pronounced, until broken into two parts I exclaim;

Who the fuck am I?!
and
What the fuck am I looking at?!


1. Nunn, G.P Problem Pictures, Men and Women in Victorian Pictures (1995) P.65
2. Nunn, G.P Problem Pictures-Men and Women in Victorian Paintings (1995) P.109

(Much gratitude to you E )

What the fuck are you looking at?

A beautiful portrayal of vulnerability-this powerful photograph evokes compassion and sadness in me, perhaps because I know of the tragedy to come- but as a stand alone image, the look in this woman's eye I recognise. I have witnessed it. I have lived it.





What the fuck are you looking at?


unresolved #1


unresolved #2



One is not born a woman
Rather one becomes a woman
Simone de Beauvoir


What does it mean to be a woman? What does it mean to be seen as a woman? How do I exist under the title of woman?

I am a woman who was a girl in the 1970.s, a teenager in the 1980,s, a young woman in the 1990's and in keeping in accordance to the specific titles given at one's times of life, approaching middle age in the 2000,s. (if i sound resentful i don't mean to)_

During the 1970's I was often referred to as a 'tom-boy', since unlike my little sister who liked playing ' houses' with her dolls and going to great lengths in organising tea-party's with home made plasticine fairy cakes baked straight from the plastic mock oven, I liked to wear a cowboy a hat. Whilst walking around woolies (adorning my cowboy hat) with my mum during our regular Saturday afternoon shopping jaunts, i would trail behind her so that she wouldn't see me practice my bow-legged swagger courtesy of 'Wild Bill Hickock' as depicted in Calamity Jane that I was beginning to master to a tee.

My mum well aware of my cowboy fantasies (that of wanting to be one and not shag one) that sometimes morphed into another bow-legged fav',' Starsky ' (as in Starsky and Hutch) left me alone to explore and grapple with this thing of gender identification.

With the use of photographs my aim is to explore cliches of female identity , the 'feminine' of the female as commoditise by the fashion industry and the like. Female as provocateur contrived by the photographer who in turn is sold out to any number of marketing agencies. The women in my photographs are present. I have deliberately chosen strong and confronting poses to highlight the presence in what is normally absent.

The photographs are colour transparencies, or 'trannies' as they are now referred to in the professional photographic world (so i hear anyway) are contained within the light-boxes and are therefore not visible as yet on this electronic ether. I have instead added my photogrpahic preamble to the making of what was to become 'The Peep Show'.

Take a peep!



Peep Show.


Peep Show.

Contact/unresolved


unresovled #3

unresovled #4

One is not born a woman
Rather one becomes a woman
Simone de Beauvoir


What does it mean to be a woman? What does it mean to be seen as a woman? How do I exist under the title of woman?

I am a woman who was a girl in the 1970.s, a teenager in the 1980,s, a young woman in the 1990's and in keeping in accordance to the specific titles given at one's times of life, approaching middle age in the 2000,s. (if i sound resentful i dont mean to)_

During the 1970's I was often referred to as a 'tom-boy', since unlike my little sister who liked playing ' houses' with her dolls and going to great lengths in organising tea-party's with home made plasticine fairy cakes baked straight from the plastic mock oven in I liked to wear a cowboy a hat and whilst walking around woolies with my mum during her regular saturday afternoon shopping jaunts, i would trail behind her so that she wouldn't see me practice my bow-legged swagger courtesy of 'Wild Bill Hickock' as depicted in Calamity Jane that I was beginning to master to a tee.

My mum well aware of my cowboy fantasies (that of wanting to be one and not shag one) that sometimes morphed into another bow-legged fav',' Starsky ' (from Starsky and Hutch) left me alone to explore and grapple with this thing if gender identification.

With these photographs my aim is to explore cliches of female identity , the 'feminine' of the female as commodified by the fashion industry and the like. Female as provocateur contrived by the photographer who in turn is sold to any number of marketing agencies,The woman in my images are present. I have deliberately chosen strong and confronting poses to highlight the presence in what is normally absents

Take a peep!