from Mira Schor's essay "The ism that dare not speak its name"

There is no doubt that public identification as a feminist does carry risk. Young women are often afraid of the word, even when they are drawn to the concepts. They want to be at the center. Who wouldn't? And, largely because of feminist activism and feminism's analysis of societal hierarchies, this has become an achievable goal. But feminism is seen as by definition speaking from the margin, for the margin. Thus, by extension, the center is not feminist and will not reward overt demonstrations of feminism. Unfortunately, this analysis of the risk of feminism is probably accurate, but surely it describes a devil's bargain that only reinforces the continued necessity for strong feminist identification and action. And, further, embracing the nonfeminist center also carries a risk for the woman artist: that the new postgendered universal of the center turns out to be the (male) universal of the past in which only feminist specificity can spare a woman artist from being subsumed by a male-oriented art history.

Angry.

This argument about Agnes Martin is beyond fucked up. Apparently the grids she makes are about her being a lesbian.

Proenza Schouler Fall RTW 2012

so good.

Take a step to end misogyny.

Sign this petition.

Also read this.

Poem for my sisters

She felt the air take on the dense atmosphere of a nightmare. A wet disgust bearing down, the weight of a corpse heavy against her skin. Her desire is irrelevant, floating somewhere far above her body, a white balloon in a dark sky, miles above earth even. His tongue snoozes down her throat, her pupils have become magnets, staring blankly at the ceiling’s stucco. The lamp’s fluorescent hum echoes in her skull, filling her with a dead blue sound.

She started smoking cigarettes then, even though she had a cold. They lay there on the counter with the lid open, half of them gone. She feels opaque, the smoke darkening her lungs a false explanation. The smell lingered on her hands, let her search for a way to find some pleasure in her disgust.

When her father came to get her, he loaded up all their knives into the trunk of the car. But he must have lumbered up her stairs like a sad giant, rage melting into utter defeat as he held her, whispering peach, peach.

She tests my reaction as a child would, locking my gaze across the table, lifting off another bottle cap. Her sock touches mine under the table and I tremble, feeling how happy she wants to be. The house buries her each night deeper under planks grey as orphanage sugar. She curls her spine tighter around her heart, fear coating the walls of her skin, dripping back down each time she clears her throat.

On Sunday night, when I walked in the door, it took only fifteen seconds for her muscles to loosen, we held together the safest warmth. The hurt so deep I felt it swimming from her, our ribs shaking and sobbing, squeezing each other tight, trying not to drift away in this tide.

Just your friendly Atatürk

You will not believe Turkey's official websites.

The somewhat poetic google translate of Cem Karaca's Tamirci Çırağı

[youtube]

Ha lit lit lit a fire in my heart fell
Ha hope hope hope hope my heart bread
Closed Closed white nails hands ojeli
calluses on the palms where hidden water

Came to repair our car repair shop yesterday
I began to love the sight of dead
Skirts the foot of a wave of long hair
Take my son called my coach and remote teams

I read a novel, something like this
Expensive glossy paper-covered book that Killi
I fell in love with a young girl somehow it has been
Again, such a case, a mechanic apprentice

I said I succeeded today, wearing overalls
I scanned the back of my hair aynamda birds
Would have to take the car back today
To make it real, perhaps imaginary novel

He stopped in time stopped the world entered the door
He just stared at my eyes tear
I opened the car door opened into compulsory or advisory
He got the bum who asked her eyebrows arched

Went by car pulled drowned eksozuna
Tears stood in the bud Göysümde agar agar
Forget the novels she said came from my coach and my back hit
The worker said the bags you put on permanent workers ...

----

Gönlüme bir ateş düştü yanar ha yanar yanar
Ümit gönlümün ekmeği umar ha umar umar
Elleri ak yumuk yumuk ojeli tırnakları
nerelere gizlesin şu avucun nasırları

Otomobili tamire geldi dun bizim tamirhaneye
Görür görmez vurularak başladım sevmeye
Ayağında uzun etek dalga dalga saçları
Ustam seslendı uzaktan oğlum al takımları

Bir romanda okumuştum buna benzer bir seyi
Killi parlak kağıt kaplı pahalı bır kıtaptı
Ne olmuş nasıl olmuşsa aşık olmuştu genç kız
Yine böyle bir durumda tamirci cırağına

Ustama dedim ki bugün giymeyim tulumları
Arkası kuşlu aynamda taradım saclarımı
Gelecekti bugün geri arabayı almaya
O romandaki hayali belki gercek yapmaya

Durdu zaman durdu dünya girdi içeri kapıdan
Öylece bakakaldım gözümü ayırmadan
Arabanın kapısını açtım açtım girsin içeri
Kalktı hilal kaşları sordu kim bu serseri

Çekti gitti arabayla eksozuna boguldum
Göysümde tomurcuk yaşlar agar agar dogruldum
Ustam geldı sırtıma vurdu unut dedı romanları
İşcisin sen işçi kal giy dedi tulumları...