I Like: Rosie the Riveter

Last weekend I had the pleasure and the joy of photographing Sydney's Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras Parade. Have I mentioned how much I love my job? Probably. Let's move on.

My media pass got me into a pretty spectacular pre-parade area, where I could wander around and meet the various groups preparing to march in the parade. Whilst on the move I saw a couple of girls dressed like one of my favourite cultural icons, Rosie the Riveter.


I ventured further down the road, and found a whole stack of them!


"Look at you, ladies!" I gushed as I took their photo. "You're like a dream come true. Rosie's my hero." Embarrassing? Yes. A bunch of falsities? No. I decided that when I got home to Auckland I would find out more about these girls.

The girls were from a group called The Femme Guild of Sydney, who believe in the solidarity, celebration and visibility of those who identify as femme (essentially defined as a lesbian who exhibits "stereotypically female traits", but from the group's manifesto - and the photo below - they obviously believe in the solidarity, celebration and visibility of more than just "lipstick lesbians").


In the group's manifesto, they state:

"We actively recognise the generations of activism that have challenged traditional gender roles and struggled to explode the die-hard myth of the sex/gender binary. Femme Guild peacefully co-exists with other radical ways to play with gender, or to be a woman. There is no one way to be a woman, to be trans, to be queer, or to be a man."

If you've been following my blog - on in fact, me - for a while, you'll know that this facet of their manifesto speaks to me. I play a sport that was built on these same ideals of challenging traditional gender roles. Ask anyone who plays roller derby why they love it, and they will no doubt tell you how they love the dynamic the sport presents - you can be fast, agile, tactile, skilful, sexy, feminine, "butch"*, physical, brutal - all at the same time. These women will often repeat a popular derby mantra - "roller derby saved my soul". Not because it gave them something to do with their spare time, but because the confidence these women find on the track often translates into their everyday lives. A new derby skater often finds her voice, her own sense of style, her cause; anything. And whether they realise it or not, playing roller derby projects a powerful message of feminism - it may not necessarily be said aloud, but the message is heard loud and clear.

I'll be honest when I say that my feminist bent didn't precede roller derby by much, but looking back, all the signs were there. My long-standing obsession with Rosie the Riveter is no doubt one of them.

I recently found out that the iconic image touted as being Rosie the Riveter was not the now-classic "We Can Do It!" American war effort poster.


According to this article, the real Rosie was shown on a Norman Rockwell cover of a 1943 Saturday Evening Post.


The "Rosie" we've all come to love was actually used in Westinghouse factories when women made some 13 million Mycarta (a precursor to Formica, or "formerly Mycarta") helmet liners.

I don't think it matters overly that Rosie as a cultural icon has been replaced with a Westinghouse image - the want to portray female strength remains the same. That's why I've always like "the Rosies" of the American factories during World War II.

Credit: Office of War Information photos by Alfred T. Palmer, 1942.
Found on the gosh darn amazing Rosie the Riveter Wikipedia article.

They were real women, doing jobs they were more than capable of doing, in a time where mankind needed them most. They found their physical strength and challenged patriarchal values.

And that's why I like Rosie.

----------

Postscript quote

"Rich cultures, patriarchal cultures, value thin women, like ours; poor ones value fat women. But all patriarchal cultures value weak women. So for women to become physically strong is very profound."
- Gloria Steinem [SOURCE]

(With thanks to Kate for this quote)

----------

* Sorry to use quotes, but given the common, derogatory usage of the word butch, I hate using it.

I Like: Stefan Sagmeister

I recently stumbled across the work of Austria-born, New York-known and Indonesia-based "rock star" graphic designer Stefan Sagmeister, notably his series of installations known as Things I Have Learnt In My Life So Far. I love how his work has developed from simple ideas to huge installations, but I'll let him explain how.

"The idea for this... originally came out of my own list in my diary, under the very same title: Things I have learned in my life so far. Astonishingly, I have only learned twenty or so things so far. Over the last five years I did manage to publish these maxims all over the world, in spaces normally occupied by advertisements and promotions: as billboards, projections, light-boxes, magazine spreads, annual report covers, fashion brochures, and, recently, as giant inflatable monkeys."
- Sagmeister, from the Things website.

If you head to the website you can samples of Sagmeister's work, along with another offshoot of the original list - contributions by site users. But here is the original list (and some of the installations of) what Sagmeister has learned. I loved it. Enjoy.

THINGS I HAVE LEARNT IN MY LIFE SO FAR

Helping other people helps me.
Having guts always works out for me.

Thinking that life will be better in the future is stupid. I have to live now.

Starting a charity is surprisingly easy.
Being not truthful works against me.
Everything I do always comes back to me.
Assuming is stifling.
Drugs feel great in the beginning and become a drag later on.
Over time I get used to everything and start taking for granted.
Money does not make me happy.
Travelling alone is helpful for a new perspective on life.
Keeping a diary supports personal development.

Trying to look good limits my life.

Material luxuries are best enjoyed in small doses.
Worrying solves nothing.
Complaining is silly. Either act or forget.
Actually doing the things I set out to do increases my overall level of satisfaction.
Everybody thinks they are right.
If I want to explore a new direction professionally, it is helpful to try it out for myself first.
Low expectations are a good strategy.
Everybody who is honest is interesting.

More on Things I Have Learnt here:

More on Stefan Sagmeister HERE.

Happy New Year from Autumnal Fuck

Ponderous cat was pondering.
Staring down the barrel of the birthday cake in front of him, he remembered the past year.
A year of massive highs,
And of devastating lows.
Now, he wondered about the year ahead.
What would it be like to be four?
What will he encounter?
What will he experience?
Such are the questions he asked himself at this time every year.
So with all the energy he could muster,
With all the might he could manage,
Ponderous cat blew out the candles with a breath that sounded more like a sigh.
And as four extinguished flames became four trails of black smoke, he thought to himself:
"There better be some fucking tunafish in that cake."

Happy New Year, Autumnal Fuckers. I'm back.

Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #8

After I recently RSS'd Jono's blog over at The Shortest Word, a graphic design / inspiration blog, I was reminded of a few things I had banging around (with various levels of inspiration.)

John Samuel Waters, Jr

Michael Roulier

And a little bit of achy breaky truth from the people over at Postsecret:

I love other people's things.

Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #6

It would appear that I'm all out of inspiration again.

I've been leaving my notebook at home, paying less attention to the things people do and say, getting increasingly frustrated at the lack of hours in the day and reading less and less and less. I'm 25 in three days, and I've been spending the last week drowning my inner child in recklessness, sleepless nights and alcohol. I do, however, have plenty of things to see, do, look forward to and love:

The scrawlings of others,

The joy in the eyes of little lives,

Dreamy thoughts on dewy days,

Suave companions filled with comic quips,

and reminders that true love still exists.

The funny,

The fanciful,

And the materially desired,

But most of all, the bright northern summer, which beckons me each morning from my home's frosty depths as my time to travel draws closer...

...maybe 25 won't be so bad.


This post goes out to my dear friend Karel who, after talk of eating danishes on first dates, has restored my brain's setting to pleasantly whimsical. Thank you K, I look forward to sweet treats, hot drinks and self-aware conversation with you soon.

Photos courtesy of The Satorialist, Facehunter, Lomography at Live Journal and various other places that I forgot to note down. If you would like crediting, please let me know.

Samantha and the cigarette

I was enjoying the sun from our lounge's day bed when Samantha slunk in the room, treading heavily and scuffing her heels on the floor. Startling me as she slumped into my armchair and lit up a cigarette, she cocked her head and gave me a forced smile, neglecting to remove the fag from between her lips. This was the kind of belligerence that I had come to expect from this youthful wiseacre who had been hanging around our home of late. Samantha had recently started sleeping with my housemate Ben, who was currently asleep. This morning was no different to every other time she stayed – she would awake two hours before Ben to perform her usual routine, which consisted of her eating our food, smoking his cigarettes and walking around our house in a blouse and underwear.

She was a pig around the home, and thought nothing of leaving empty soda cans, half drunk coffee and clothes, clothes, clothes all over the house. She never seemed to wear shoes, probably on account of the large stash of them that was accumulating around our bookshelf and coffee table – beautiful leather boots from Italy, open toe high heels and strappy sandals littered the floor. In spite of her nonchalant attitude towards footwear and bottom half attire, Samantha always took great pride in brushing her hair – I would often walk past the bathroom to find her combing out the wiry mess at the back of her head – knotted up from all the vigorous fucking I could hear through the walls at night and in the early morning.

As she sat across from me, I remembered how this vociferous little nymph got to be here, sitting in my late grandfather's most prized piece of furniture, smoking and rubbing her dirty heels into the velvet. She and Ben had met at a film school party – he assumed that she attended the school he had graduated from; she hadn't assured him otherwise. It turned out from the few snide encounters we'd had since she all but moved in three months ago, that she was unemployed and uneducated – she was a very well-read young lady but had dropped out of school at the tender age of 14. She had been kicking around smoky bars with literary types for years – smoking cigarettes and drinking liquor long before her age permitted her to, but speaking in a way that allowed her to pretend she was ten years her senior for quite some time. She was pretentious, arrogant and oh-so-self assured, and me? I wanted her gone.

On this particular morning, as she sat in my grandfather's armchair, I decided to forgo my own routine, which involved awkwardly offering her a coffee just as the kettle's whistle broke the silence of our now-regular meetings. This time I just let her sit there and wait, choosing to continue reading rather than even acknowledge her. I got the feeling that this guttersnipe was used to being looked after, and I didn't want to make a habit of waiting on her.

"Aren't you having coffee this morning?" she chided.
"No actually," I replied with eyes still firming attached to the page, "Today I don't feel like making it."
"Have you got a problem with me?" she offered. Now was my chance.
"Well Samantha-" I faltered. If I turned to her and told her exactly what I thought of her, I could be certain that me and my beautiful chair would be out on the street, and I would be without Ben in my life.
"Well Samantha," I continued smugly. "It just seems like we spend an awful lot of time together, but we don't really know each other. Who is Samantha, eh?"

"Well, what do you want to know?" she said.

Truth be told, I wanted to know anything I could about her – anything that would make me hate her even more than I already did; anything I could use as evidence in the court of Ben. This woman had such a hold on him – appearing so free-spirited to him and yet so methodical and calculating in her dealings with me. I hoped that she was jealous of me, but someone who clearly thought as highly of herself a Samantha did would probably never give me a second thought. I gave myself a few seconds to compose myself by looking out onto the street and taking a deep breath, but was again startled by loud footsteps. Ben stormed in, carrying his bank statement.

“Two thousand and fifty dollars!?” he bellowed, thrusting the statement under her nose. “How long have you been using my card?” Samantha pulled her knees to her chin and buried her face between them, then started to stutter “I… I… Ben, I’m sorry.” Grabbing her shirt violently, he pulled her to her feet. He held her by her shoulders, then pulled her in close. Staring intently into her eyes, he calmed his breathing and spat out three words very slowly. “Get. Out. Now.” Samantha started sobbing and wiping her nose. Pleading with him she cried, “Ben, I can explain.” Ben was silent as he spun her around and lead her downstairs to the front door. “Just, get out.”

I looked down at a pair of boots on the ground. Italian. Leather. Size 40. I heard her at the base of the stairwell, crying and pleading for her belongings. Ben screamed back at her – “They belong to me now, you fucking bitch!” Just as Ben slammed the door, the kettle in the kitchen started to whistle. Chuckling to myself, I scooped the boots up from under my grandfather’s armchair, then rocked onto my lower back and slung them on. Samantha was on the lawn, staring up at the window. I looked down at her. I smiled and waved with my fingers. Shocked at the sight of me in her boots, she made two fists, closed her eyes tightly and began to shriek. I kicked my feet gleefully, then sat up on my knees. Holding a curtain in each hand as the sun streamed down on my face, I mouthed “Goodbye”, and swept the drapes closed.

Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #5

I started work on a story involving my experiences at the horrid backpackers' bar that I used to work at, but it fell flat. It wanted it to be a lot more vibrant than it was, so I dropped it. This week I've decided to write a story from a photo; I'm working on that as of today and really excited about it. I've also been checking out a bunch of stuff on tumblr, and have uncovered some really beautiful photos, cheeky writers and beautiful quotes. Oh look! Here's a couple now!

And just in case I start taking myself too seriously:

Haiku

An oldie but a goodie. This one's for Aimee:

I don't think those birds
who drink awful protein shakes
know what they are for.

Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #4

Bumper bunch, but not because I haven't had any inspiration in a while. Hell, I've had plenty.

Sage advice, care of Alex Harcharek

Teddy Girls

OPP (Other People's Polaroids)

Fresh, ripe, prepster chic, thanks to The Satorialist

Accidents:

And last but not least:

Courage Wolf.

Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #3

My little emo Six Word Story, thanks to John Mayer on Twitter.



This is ceremony, thanks to 1001 Rules For My Unborn Son.


Bam! Self-affirming self-high-five thanks to Tina Fey and 30 Rock.

Inspiration, stuff and nonsense - #1

Source: A Softer World


Source: Alec Hutchinson