I am a bit WACKy

Recently I have heard that I am a loose-cannon, I am volatile, I even heard a woman say to another (as I passed her in a narrow hall) "she is a kook."  I can imagine nothing worse than not.  Although at times it might be hard to deal with the fallout, I try to see and feel all that is available to me.

Did you see Sarah Jessica Parker on Oprah?  She has created a line of women's clothes, sizes 2 - 22, and no piece ~ not suit, not coat, not sweater ~ NOTHING is over $20.  ROUND OF APPLAUSE PLEASE, as these two millionaires sit in their Prada shoes feeling so proud that they have their eye on fashion for the working woman.  Lets all feel so good that fat and thin can have that little black dress, that business suit, that designer bag with nothing over $20.  SJP did kick off her shoes and say, "oh please don't notice the shoes though," as we all saw those telltale red soles.

But my kooky mind, my loose-cannon mind, my volatile self was pacing in front of the TV, was shouting at the TV, was freaking out at the TV.  Who the hell is making these clothes?  What kind of hell are women, and maybe even children, sitting in to produce pieces of clothes for this price?  How long do they sit at the machines?  How are their working conditions and restrooms?  day care?  health insurance?  maternity leave? pension plan?  What are these sewing machine operators manufacturing but some idiotic dream for two millionaires to sell us so we can pretend to lunch with Samantha, Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda.   

Yesterday I went to see WACK! Art and the Feminist Revolution at the Geffen Contemporary of MOCA.  Here's a little bit of a back story ~ When the LA Women's Building opened, I was living with a painter.  We were steeped in women's art; Audrey Flack, Judy Chicago, Leonore Fini.  We listened to women's music; Carmen McCrea, Nina Simone, Alice Coltrane.  We knew that art was supposed to embrace, to touch, to fill the spirit.  We knew art was to be embraced, touched, heard.  Going to the Women's Building we could get close to the art, feel the red strings against our cheeks, become enveloped in bloody red rooms ~ it was walking through the body and soul of WOMAN.

Yes, expectations were in place and I was already itching for a tiff, as Geffen built his empire on the backs of women's music, in particular my friend Laura but, all the same, I wanted to feel that women's soulful art again.  The best preparation was that I was going with two wonderful feminist women friends.  What will I see?  What will I feel?  The usual rush of entering a museum multiplied as old familiar pieces might be on display. 

I went to the ticket counter and two men were selling tickets.  "No women working here?" you can be certain I said that though I chuckled to make light of it; for gods sake I had only been in the building for 30 seconds.  Tickets bought and torn, I asked another man if I can take pictures, "Oh no."  sorry I asked.  Down a few stairs hung a huge 12 foot red carpet labia, split in the middle.  I want to touch it, walk through the slit, feel its weight, birth.  DO NOT TOUCH.  Another fellow says that I can join a tour being given by a man that is starting in just a few minutes.  No, I think I will rely on my own impressions. 

Wall after wall of photos and paintings and collages hung as high as 9 feet.  My bifocals can only see at 5.5 feet, as I "cock" back my head straining to see.  30% of the show is unviewable for me, 58 years old, standing 6 feet tall with bifocal-ed 58 year old eyes.  That percentage increases as women are shorter, older, bent over or seated.  I lean back and ask the man surveilling the room, "Is that Emily Dickinson?"  "No," he says, "it is Barbie Benson."  I am certain it is not Barbie Benson I tell him - the one with St Joan and the Venetian glass?? - hanging at least 10 feet high.  He says, "Oh that is Barbie Benson, she was Hugh Hefner's girlfriend."  So nice to have this docent's historical narrative - tho I know exactly who BB is and she is in a collage under the piece I am asking about, with her body parts cut in a dozen pieces. (he he).

I wander through more rooms enjoying the 70% that is at my viewable level.  Out of the corner of my eye, there is a young woman, with her long sleeve shirt tied around her waist.  She is looking at documents in a glass-topped table case.  A man is pacing back and forth and finally says, " you can't let your sleeves touch the table, you are making a mess."  She stands back a couple of inches and just stares at him.  From where I am standing, I cannot see what is in the case.  She walks away.  One of my friend's goes to the table and rests her hands on the edge and leans over to see read the documents under glass.  He tells her that she must step away, at least 18 inches. 

I cannot resist.  I enter the room to see that these big tables with glass tops have lots of pictures of genitalia; lots.  To read the words and see the pictures, you have to get right over them - DUH - thus the glass top tables.  I walk to this man and say, "What is your name please?" He tell me and then gets concerned.  "Are you a manager?" he asks nervously.  "No," I answer, "my name is Zoe."  Now word is traveling fast and every man in every room is on the defense.  I cannot enter a room without a head swiveling and watching me closely.  oh crap. 

I wander along and cruise through refusing to simply leave.  Last stop is the woman operated gift shop.  The woman, with the long sleeves tied at her waist, is there.  I stop and remark about how gracious she was.  Another woman overhears us and tells us how uncomfortable she was, as she tried to enjoy the exhibition, but the men in every room never left her alone. 

Probably we should celebrate that this women's art is displayed, housed, safe, climate-controlled.  You can go there and see it, as it is there until July 16.  You will see works by Judy Chicago and Tee Corrine and Audrey Flack and Faith Reingold and Judith Baca and Ann Newmarch and many others.  You can see videos of performance art and see collages and see photos and see paintings.  But you will never know what the artists really had in mind, as you step through the men's building, guided by men, guarded by men.  This art was mean to be felt, seen at eye level, and appreciated.  You are supposed to be touched and changed and loved and feel womanhood as never before.   

I just had to tell you this as I am kooky.  I am WACKy.  I like it that way.

Comments

[diane]

I Love You Wacki- know that Diane Lee (and Mary Lee too) and are standing right with you - in spirit. And if you are a loose cannon - then I think you should be cannonized!

[k bosch]

you are totally wacked. why didn't you whack one of those man workers while you were at it?