OnLine With Zoe

Guerrilla Girls rock my world

In 1977 I fell in love with an artist.  Can you imagine?  It sounds like a lyric and it was a very emotional, romantic and complex song.  The little apartment over the bookstore was filled with acrylics and oils and canvases and books and posters.  Her favorite painting, in all the world, was Vermeer's Girl in the Red Hat.  There were reproductions of it in every room, even the laundry room.

When we visited the National Gallery and she saw it in person for the first time, she fell to her knees and wept.  The guard stepped back to stand with me and quietly asked, "Is she an artist?"  I could only nod.  The guard held everyone away for many, many minutes while Maria took it all in.  I suppose at that moment, I fell in love with the power of art.  As I have written about several times, I wander museums looking for art by women.  It is the opening of my lectures on women's rights.  It is the question on my mind in the Louvre, the National Gallery, the Getty, every museum. 

My heart exploded when I first discovered the Guerrilla Girls; their books, their masks, their mission.  Seeing them at the National Museum of Women in the Arts last week was an unexpected bonanza of feminism, human rights and the arts.  Their presentation included slides, facts, figures, and conversation.  Frida is in a wheelchair and Kathe is having fun with a cigar. 

During the Q&A, a person asked how they felt about "being here."  Kathe was very insightful to immediately understand that the question was about the nature of a women's museum.  Most likely being asked many times over the years, they both knew the facets of the question.  And, to their great credit, they answered in depth while pointing out that they do not agree.  Frida believes that it is important to have a museum of women's art.  It is a undeniable testament to women in the arts.  Kathe said that she did not see it that way.  Why should women's art be segregated and, thus, the museum offer a conciliatory gesture that women have their own museum?  While women may be 16% of Congress, women's art in museums is just a sliver of that percentage. 

The entire conversation reminded me of a terrible choice Maria and I tackled in our bookstore thirty years ago ~ do we integrate all of the literature (Virginia and Thomas side by side) or do we make one of the two rooms of the store - Women's Work.  Upstairs, with rare exception (Vermeer and Dali) it was all and only women's work.  It was how I met Kahlo, Fini, Chicago, Flack, Krasner, Gentileschi.  We listened to Nyro, MacCrae, Morgana King, Anita O'Day, Alice Coltrane, Holiday.  But what would the fallout be in this ultra conservative neighborhood of Newport Beach, California? 

Maria was a Gemini and my moon is in Gemini, and finally we made the decision to segregate the work but could argue each side with equal commitment.  And so Kathe and Frida, my Guerrilla Girl friends, I get. I really get it. 

Guerrilla Girls inside my little pink camera

Sunday, October 29, the Guerrilla Girls, Kathe Kollwitz and Frida Kahlo spent the afternoon at the National Museum of Women in the Arts in Washington D.C.  I was in the second row, mesmerized and in love.  These amateur videos are from the Q&A.  The only fissure in this event is that I must work on my camera skills. 

Frida Kahlo, seated in a wheelchair with a temporary injury, is answering a question about others joining in the masked movement.  I was thrilled to hear that the Girls encourage all masked avengers to take on injustice.  Cat woman, anyone?

Kathe Kollwitz was asked about the separation of women's issues from human rights.  She talks about spending time with women Nobels and discussing that there is a "big fight taking place on the world stage to make women's issues, human rights issues."  (you can hear me mumble ~ "Oh Jesus." 

 

A Powerful Sweet Treat ~ you deserve it.

This has been on heck of a week, Gay people who have any sense about them did not really relish all of the media ripping apart the orientation of Senator Craig (R Idaho).  I would venture to guess that his behavior only made many more men live in fear, freak out in the realization of how powerful, corrupt and vengeful the family values-identified world is, and get further in that closet ~ behind the wing-tips and Ferragamo neckties.  The youtube video of his I AM NOT GAY press conference has been viewed 61,487 times, as of this moment.

The second idiotic news story, that was unavoidable, was the horror of talking Barbie, showing up in the form of Miss Teen USA, South Carolina.  We did create her, you know.  She looks exactly as we told her.  Those teeth!  That skin!  And hair like spun gold.  We think she is so pretty, we have contests and runways and crowns.  Oddly, these contests are defended with a sentence or two about the expensive scholarships winners are given.  This young lady would not be able to get into a university ~ so I hope she can pass it on to her younger fat sister who is wicked smart, wearing glasses and braces, watching at home on her notebook computer and hates her own body.  This youtube video has been viewed, as of this moment, 10,658,187 times. 

But here's the deal.  We need a little balance.  And it is available.  Just like the ridiculous people who think that the internet is only porn, you and I have looked further and know better.  All we have to do is go just a tiny bit below the surface and there it is. This lovely youtube video is by a woman and about a woman.  It has been viewed 166 times.  Hey give yourself nine minutes, turn up the sound and watch the beauty.  You deserve it.  I believe that when you do, the day will be more in balance.  War won't end.  Poverty won't be eliminated.  The oppressed won't be liberated.  But we will be better at handling it all.

And please leave a nice comment.  Women bloggers and vloggers are just eviscerated with hateful comments from unbalanced people.   This vlogger will make more visual treats for us. 

I LIVE ALONE AND LOVE TO WORK ~ Mary Cassatt

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.

MoMA & Me

Sunday morning, November 12th I woke up in New York City with one mission in mind ~ I must look at anything by Frida Kahlo.  While I was not certain, it seemed probable that her work would be at the Museum of Modern Art.  Like so many artists and authors, I only know them in books and movies, I adore Frida Kahlo for so many things but, oddly, I had never seen one of her paintings in person.  How big would it be, would the brush strokes show, how would it be framed and can I take pictures?

I took a taxi and arrived before opening and joined the line outside the door.  I stood behind a man in a wheelchair.  The museum employee pulled back the red rope and told us to go forward.  I followed in the jet stream of the chair only to find myself cut off from the standard ticket table and standing embarrassed and alone wondering where to go.  The guard glared as he told me to go back outside and get in the back of the line.  With a grumble, I went to the end of the line and stood in the light rain waiting for another 10 minutes.  Eventually the rope opened again and I got indoors, bought a ticket and was on my way to find Frida.

I took the elevator to the fifth floor and bee-lined to the information table.  "Do you have a Kahlo?" I asked enthusiastically.  The woman said, "Oh yes we do but it is not a very good one."  "I would like to make that decision myself," I replied.   She continued, "It is not one of her better ones.  She is ugly and wearing a suit."  "I traveled 3,000 miles to see it.  You might consider not saying something like that,"  I said as I stepped away in disgust. 

In the next room, hanging under plexiglass I found, Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair, 1940, oil on canvas.  It was surprisingly small ~ 15.75 X 11 inches.  There it was, so moving, so emotional, so powerful, so revolutionary.  Each color chosen, mixed and applied with her very hand.  She had found her husband making love to her sister and cut her hair, sat legs open, wearing Diego's suit.  If you look closely at the strands of hair on the floor surrounding the chair, you can single out her braid.  How I wish I had known her.  I stood in front of her portrait for a very long time.

Breaking from Frida's spell I walked through the room and spotted another familiar painting ~ a Lee Krasner ~ another woman!  And one with another deeply flawed husband.  No matter the cultural circumstances of their lives it is so wonderful to find work by women in a museum; housed and dry and safe and preserved and remembered. 

Ignited with a possibility of more I trekked to the first floor hoping there would be more works by women in MoMA. I charged the main information desk on the first floor and who do I find but the very man who sent me back out to the rain.  "Here I am ~ your favorite visitor," I laughed.  "How can I help you?" he asked coldly.  I explained that I would like to know how many female artists' work are in MoMA.  He actually ran a query and gave me exact numbers!  423 works in all and 26 are by women.  SIX PERCENT.   I have the printout. 

He was not at all surprised, not apologetic, not interested - only the facts ma'am.  And while Congress has 16% women and the Supreme Court has one out of nine and MoMA has 6% ~ I grieve.  I grieve for all the women who could not afford oil and canvas.  I grieve for all the women whose passion called them to paint with what they could get; natural vegetable dye on perishable surfaces.  I grieve for all the women who wanted to paint but had no time.  I grieve for all the female leaders whose ethics disqualify them from national American politics and cannot amass the money required to run a campaign.  I grieve for all the women who long for justice.