art

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A Spectrum of Expression

Untitled, by Cecile Lobert (2022)

The image above is an untitled UV acrylic painting by Cecile Lobert, an autistic and non-verbal painter. Every autistic person deserves to have their story seen, not just those of us who communicate through traditional methods. Cecile may not use words, but she expresses herself vividly and gives us insight into her life that others cannot do for her. She uses textures, colors, and emotional depth that past and present messaging from neurotypical people leave out.

In 2009, a non-profit advocacy group called Autism Speaks released a nationwide PSA called ‘I Am Autism’, which featured a voiceover from the perspective of their personification of autism. Here are a few lines from the PSA:

“I work faster than pediatric aids, cancer, and diabetes combined
And if you’re happily married, I will make sure that your marriage fails.
Your money will fall into my hands, and I will bankrupt you for my own self-gain.
I don’t sleep, so I make sure you don’t either.
I will make it virtually impossible for your family to easily attend a temple, birthday party, or public park without a struggle, without embarrassment, without pain.
You have no cure for me.
Your scientists don’t have the resources, and I relish their desperation. Your neighbors are happier to pretend that I don’t exist”

Autism Speaks has since apologized for their PSA, but the damage has already been done.  Like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie explains in “The Danger of a Single Story”, people form lifelong beliefs about others based on the first stories they hear about a demographic outside of their own, especially if they never hear from the demographic being discussed.

16 years after ‘I Am Autism’ aired, the Secretary of Health and Human Services said in a nationwide press conference that autistic people will never be able to pay taxes, hold a job, write a poem, go on a date, or use the bathroom unassisted. If you are autistic and or have been emersed in neurodivergent spaces, you know that depiction is not true and certainly not whole. Even autistic people who experience the struggles described above, they can and do have vibrant, meaningful, happy lives. The Autism Speaks PSA and the HHS secretary’s statements are both centered around arbitrary lists of things they think autistic people cannot do, framing it as if not being able to do those things makes autistic people’s lives miserable and empty. These narratives influence the greater population’s perception of disabled people, which then influences policies and practices that harm disabled people.

Below you can see more art from autistic artists. Seeing through their eyes rather than the scornful eyes of people who wish to eradicate autism gives them agency and a voice that is being stripped from them. I hope the depth, color, texture, and care put into these pieces allow you to see the depth and range of autistic people’s experiences and abilities which have been downplayed by people with a lot of influence and reach.

“Future Girlfriend” by Jeremy Sicile-Kira
“Silenced” by Nihilivonne
“Train Cars and Traffic Lights” by Vito Bonnano
“Look Me in the Eye” by Judy Endow
“Mango” by Derrick Freeman

The Muse’s Misfortune
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The Muse’s Misfortune

The Muse’s Misfortune 

To be a muse is to be worthy. To be a muse is to be beautiful and talented, chosen and seen. To be a muse is to be exhilarated and exhausted, honored and objectified, proud and pornified. There cannot be one state of being without the other, so long as there is one being to perceive and one being to be perceived.

Read more: The Muse’s Misfortune

In some societies, perhaps, it is possible for a muse to exist without the constant fear and awareness of their own and another’s presence. In patriarchal and sexist cultures, however, the muse faces an internal and external threat of surveillance, and therefore sexualization. “(Patriarchal and sexist) society defines woman as object, as a mere body, and… are in fact frequently regarded by others as objects and mere bodies” (Young, I. “Throwing Like a Girl: A Phenomenology of Feminine Body Comportment Motility and Spatiality,” p. 153-154). For feminine muses, they “learn to live out (their) existence in accordance with the definition that patriarchal culture assigns to (them, and) are physically inhibited, confined, positioned, and objectified” (152). The definition becomes internalized, which then manipulates and forces women into being more feminine- more submissive, docile, small, quiet. “Women often approach a physical engagement with things with timidity, uncertainty, and hesitancy… (They) lack an entire trust in (their) bodies to carry (them to their) aims. There is… a double hesitation here. On the one hand, (women) lack confidence that (they) have the capacity to do what must be done… The other side of this tentativeness is… a fear of getting hurt… (They) often experience (their) bodies as a fragile encumbrance, rather than the medium for the enactment of (their) aims” (143-144). The subordination of feminine beings is at the root of patriarchy, and it grows as more minds and bodies accept the notion that feminine and masculine categories cannot intermingle. The stronger the patriarchy becomes, the more ‘natural’ it seems that feminine bodies are weaker than masculine bodies. In reality, women “have more of a tendency than men to greatly underestimate our bodily capacity,” as well as the relentless pressure of being perceived as a muse, which results in under-performance.

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Burnout, The Grind and My Activist Work: A Vent

A quick sketch I made for this post. This is a very toned-down version of where I’m at. (photo ID: a black-and-white sketch of a small humanoid “snailcat” with his back, shell, and tail to the viewer, holding in one hand a paintbrush with black paint over a bucket while scratching his head with his other hand. he is staring at a brick wall, his shadow over it to his left and a couple of minimally detailed posters to his right.)

Whenever something big and horrible happens, one of the biggest coping mechanisms I have is to redirect any overwhelming crushing despair or anxiety I have about it into doing my part, and doing what I can. I’m an artist, so I know I can make art about it, and I’m a GWST scholar, so I know I can write about it.

That is, I would be able to. IF I DIDN’T HAVE SO MUCH WORK TO DO.

I am unemployed and taking 15 credits this semester, 3 of those including an (UNPAID!) internship where I have to produce 55 entire pages of full illustrations, 5 of which have animated components. I am 3 whole weeks behind on that work, and my timing should work out but it is going to be awful and crammed and I feel sick just thinking about how much catch-up I have to do. I’m not getting paid but it’s good work that I can use in a future portfolio, and it’s for a good cause (books suited to an older reader demographic while providing illustration and comprehension assistance for readers with cognitive disabilities). Meanwhile in my actual classwork I have a major final project with a deadline coming up alarmingly soon that I want to get perfect because it’s an analysis of a video game (ULTRAKILL) and topic (Jack Halberstam’s Queer Art of Failure) that I really care about. So I am already diverting energy into two interdisciplinary activist/GWST-related things I genuinely want to get exactly right. And I feel confident in saying that I am Burnt Out.

All of this was already stressful before, you know. WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 6TH 2024.

My social media pages that day were full of posts encouraging me to get organized, make art, write thought pieces detailing my unwillingness to give in to the doom and roll up my sleeves. And I would love to participate in any movements that are mobilizing in the context of The Horror That Is Unfolding Before Our Eyes. I know I have the skill to contribute art and work beyond just sharing resources and mutual aid drives (though that is always helpful). And I know I shouldn’t hold myself to the standard of a “good” project being one that is always perfect and brilliant and revolutionary. But in times like this the pressure to make art that perfectly encapsulates the rage just adds to the crushing pressure of the world itself.

It’s a rage I fear I can’t put into words, and seeing all of the art and performance work in disability activist movements we’ve been looking at for class makes me feel like I have something to live up to. But that potential I have is shrouded by the labor required to survive, to get a job, to build a portfolio, to get a degree. And I am grateful that this is labor I can direct passion into, but man I wish it was easier. I wish I had time!!!!!!!

(all this being said, the first thing im doing once i have time is making a sticker with shadow the hedgehog holding the trans flag and saying a raw as hell quote from sonic ’06 so if thats something that interests you, keep an eye out!)

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My Fused Violin, My Musical Body

Music has always been my way of expression, whether it be through an instrument, a song I sing, or even a dance. Music became a part of my body. Music has always been there for me when I needed to be creative, when I needed to think. As I’m writing this I’m listening to music. Since elementary school I have been enveloped in the love of music. I started to learn how to play violin. My teacher was such a passionate person when it came to teaching music. I think that’s why I began to fall in love more with my music. She always motivated us to keep supporting music and to never let it fade from our hearts. My mom loved hearing me play, she was also in love with music. Her hearing me practice made her joyful that her daughter was carrying on the musical tradition. She was in chorus when she lived in her village and she always came back with awards and trophies because of how beautiful her voice is. My mom’s voice is amazing, she always brings me comfort when she sings to me, I think that also fueled my passion for music. Throughout elementary school, to middle school where I became first chair in my orchestra class, to high-school, the violin was my best friend, my safe space.

When I played my violin, it blurred out all the noise, the voices, the creaking sounds of that music room. I felt my hands connect with my bow, my chinrest melt into the violin. The bow grazing against the string and my fingers pressed on the fingerboard of the violin, creating such beautiful music. I never really told anyone about how connected I am about my violin until this class. I wouldn’t let anyone touch it unless it was the Lashof violin manager repairing my bridge and my strings. When I was sad, I could play my heart out with such balance and heavy energy. When I was happy I would be so quick with my bowing hand and my finger placement. I had the ability to hear a song and mimic it on my violin after two minutes of hearing the song. I would catch every vibrato, every rest, every pitch change. Music was in me, music became me.

When we spoke about music embodiment, the first thing I could think of was my connection to my instruments that I have learned to play over the years. Violin, guitar, bass, cello, and etc. I feel like my parents gave me that musical gene. My dad played trumpet and trombone when he was younger, my mom was so good with her vocal skills, and because of them I became the connection to them for music to live on. I miss playing sometimes since I have not much time to play or take a course in music. But I still play my violin when I am home on break. I still play for myself, my parents here and there. I played for my grandma who also played when she was younger, and she passed, but that’s how I connect to her.

Music is so freeing. I can’t explain how much music saved my life. It saved my body. Music has the power to do so much to a person. Music can move people, it can cause so many different emotions. It can bring different people together. It can help you think. It can help you breathe. It can help you remember your loved ones who aren’t there anymore. It can even create so many memories. Even those who are unable to hear, are able to find music vibrations so powerful. I love music, with all my heart I do. I don’t know where I would be without it in my life. I probably wouldn’t have been able to write this blog post right now without it. As a musician, music is something so powerful, for those who play instruments as well I know you would understand how indescribable music can be. I feel like those who even listen to music understand it too. Music, whether it is being played, being created, being heard, it will always have some sort of embodiment to that person. I would never regret my choice in trying to play the violin, because it wouldn’t have brought me here, where I am able to share my story of how music embodies me.

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
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Speaking Up for the Selfie

The Day I Taught My Mom How To Take A Selfie (2006)

The Day I Taught My Mom How To Take A Selfie (2006)

I am proudly, unabashedly, fond of selfies. Even before the advent of the camera phone and the digital camera, I was taking pictures of myself on film — the anticipation of what would come back from the lab always excited me. It’s amazing to me that we can so easily create images of ourselves, and the fact that our ability to do this is, historically speaking, Kind Of A Big Deal, is never far from my mind.
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The Great Wall of Penis

Last year Kelly Martin Broderick wrote a blog post about The Great Wall of Vagina. As an artist myself I was able to appreciate the wall as art. I cannot imagine the time and effort the artist put into every cast. The fact that so many women took time to participate is amazing!

great-wall-of-vagina-panel-1-of-10-w

I decided to do a bit of research and came across PENIS. Big ones, short ones, fat ones, long one and the list goes on. Joseph Tailor’s project entitled ‘Art Work “100” ‘ is a casting project of many penis. This made me extremely uncomfortable. I didn’t understand why. I don’t mind looking at my boyfriend’s penis. His is pretty cool. I also didn’t mind looking at the wall of vaginas.

Wall-of-Erections_8DSC05408a

(Yes that is a Golden Penis. Not to be confused with the Golden Snitch)

Thinking hard -no pun intended- about my feelings I came to the conclusion that it was because of the form of the penis. Let me explain:

The vaginas on the great wall are all carefully placed and appear to be that of relief sculptures. They are delicate and unique. This is truly how a vagina looks.

While each penis is also unique I felt almost as if they were looking at me. I realize it was easiest to capture the mold of a penis while it was hard but this is not realistic. A man’s penis can only achieve maximum size when it is erect. Does that mean you’re “less of a man” when it’s not?

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How I gained body acceptance (with a lil’ help from Bitchy Bitch)

As you can tell from my username, I love vintage stuff.  I’ve been this way my whole life.  I was that dorky little kid who listened to the Beatles and Buddy Holly, and when you came to my house to play Barbies with me, the story had to take place during World War II on the home front.  By far, my favorite aspect of vintage culture was always Archie comics.  Does anyone remember Archie, the redhead teen from Riverdale? When I was maybe seven or eight, my mom bestowed upon me her huge collection of Archie comics from her 1970s childhood, and about a year later, my aunt sent me an anthology of Archies from the 1940s entitled Archie Americana Series: Best of the Forties.  I was obsessed.  I was particularly taken with Veronica, Archie’s spoiled, snarky, and bee-you-tiful girlfriend.

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