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Gnomes in Tales and Media By Sidney Shuman QuailBellMagazine.com Garden gnomes have existed as a form of decoration since the Renaissance. Gobbi was the name of the first gnome designed for decoration and the traditional garden décor has made its way across the world since. Now as a symbol of kitsch and nostalgic culture, the gnome is easily made iconic in pop culture. The most recognizable garden gnomes over the past few years have been seen in Travelocity commercials, the movie Gnomeo and Juliet, and fairly strange postcards. In Travelocity commercials, a garden gnome is personified going to many different locations around the globe. He is known as the roaming gnome. His ridiculous British accent adds an element of fun to a seemingly mundane website. A gnome is safe to use in the advertisements because they have a light presence and are easy to recognize as a simple symbol. The movie Gnomeo and Juliet is a 3-D animated movie made by Kelly Asbury that follows the plot of Romeo and Juliet, only using garden gnomes as the characters. The movie was released in 2011 and uses the gnomes to appeal to children and make a classic tragedy much lighter and easier to understand. The fact that gnomes were chosen over any other folklore characters to replace humans in this movie goes to show garden gnomes’ general happy and kitschy reputation keeps them a marketable symbol is today’s society. The postcards that have been surfacing with garden gnomes give them a reputation of smoking and using drugs in their forest homes. Postcards such as these have surfaced in small shops across the United States and an example is seen here: Although tarnishing to the garden gnome’s pristine image, these are hilarious cards that one can purchase in many odds and ends shops across the country.
From commercials to movies to strange postcards, garden gnomes still have a fun presence even after about 400 years of existing. Their reputation continues to be mysteriously funky and unexpected and they are sure to be seen in more forms of media. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
No doubt where we'll be October 5th...Dear fledglings,
We can't resist getting you pumped up for the Richmond 'Zine Fest. It's all we can think about these days! (Okay, not all, but it's definitely at the forefront of our minds.) Whether you're local to Richmond, Virginia or not, check out the city's premiere alternative literature event. It'll be bundles of fun to see what 'zinesters from Virginia and beyond are penning, photographing, collaging, and Xeroxing these days. Take a peek at the full list of tablers here and consider registering yourself. The festival will grace the Richmond Gay Community Center on October 5th. Don't forget to bring your pocket change! Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hey, B'more! Your Poe Bro is Coming Back!!By Belle Byrd QuailBellMagazine.com If you've been pining for the Edgar Allan Poe House in Baltimore, then pine no more. Almost exactly a year after its closing when the City of Baltimore announced it would no longer fund the house museum, the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore is reopening the author's abode. The annual commemorative Poe lecture takes place at the house on October 6th. Learn more at EAPoe.org. Check out The Quail Bell Crew's documentary on Edgar Allan Poe's life in Richmond, Virginia.
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They call you Swampie.By Belle Byrd QuailBellMagazine.com Personal identity is complicated and understanding who you are requires a lot of reflection. You have to ask yourself the important questions, like, does my love for David Bowie actually make me selective but slutty? The more self-aware you are, the more obnoxious poetry you can write. And the more obnoxious poetry you write means, heck, you can wear that beret without looking like a douche. Oh, wait. You are a douche. But that's okay. At least you're aware of it. What's not okay? Not realizing you're a swamp monster when you actually are. So just to double-check, here are ten signs you might be a swamp monster: 1. You love the smell of swamp mire in the morning.
2. Your eyes are red—naturally. No scary contacts or pot involved. 3. Wild boar is your favorite meal, tusks and all. 4. You're cool with swamp snakes. 5. You're cool with swamp spiders. 6. You're cool with swamp scorpions. (Gotcha! No such thing.) 7. You're at least seven feet tall and don't play basketball. 8. You have gills instead of ears. 9. Your hands and feet are webbed. 10. Everyone else's definition of “dirty” differs from yours. (And in case you were wondering, swamp monsters may not wear berets.) The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Lord ProvidesBy Luna Lark QuailBellMagazine.com I am the poster child for impromptu trips. I have bought bus tickets three hours before departure—exactly ten minutes after deciding I want to get away and without having packed so much as a clean pair of socks. Oh, and did I mention still having to bike three miles uphill to get to the bus depot? While critics may call this a questionable life choice, I say it's helped me see and do things I wouldn't have experienced otherwise. Once on a bus ride from Washington, D.C. to Pittsburgh, I met a man convinced he had found his true love. That true love was not me. The bus had just pulled into a dark lot in Baltimore when this fellow of red eyes, tattooed arms, and a maroon T-shirt boarded. The bus was already crowded with sketchy characters and I was sitting next to about the only free seat. I was okay as long as I had the window seat. And since this guy didn't yank me by the shoulders and put me in the aisle seat so he get a view of the freeway, I still did. So far, so good. The man and I got to talking. I was so used to talking to strangers on buses by this point that I thought nothing of it. You can tell your bus buddy your deepest, darkest secrets, unless you happen to be a serial killer or big-time drug dealer. If I were you, I'd keep those confessions to myself. Otherwise, blab on, but, more importantly for storytellers, take time to listen.
This man clearly was not into listening, which was fine because he had me hooked. He had just gotten divorced and he was taking the bus to see a woman in Chicago, a woman he fell madly in love with one week into his engagement. A mutual friend had invited both of them to his house, where they stayed for hours, talking and watching television. It was a completely platonic get-together. My bus buddy had kept in touch with this woman through texts and instant messenger for the past seven years. She wasn't the reason for his divorce; he had never loved his wife, anyway, and their marriage dissolved on its own. Besides, his conversations with this woman were never of a romantic nature. He never expressed his feelings for her and she never expressed hers for him. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Bring On the Turkey LegsHear ye, hear ye! Now that autumn has commenced, 'tis the season of low-budget Shakespeare plays and velveteen puff-sleeve dresses. That's right: Get ready for renaissance faires across the country to invade that patch of woods you never knew existed behind that crappy shopping center. Say what? You're already ready? Just how ready? Not ready enough unless you're exhibiting these 10 signs: 1. Ladies, the first thing you do after taking a shower is stand in front of the mirror, press your breasts together, and check out that ren faire cleavage. Men, you're all about growing out that beard. 2. You practice eating turkey legs while wearing a costume. No grease stains? Excellent. Time for another one. 3. You can't help but see long, skinny objects—sticks, brooms, etc.—as swords. En garde! 4. When you hit your favorite Irish pub, you only care about the really old drinking songs.
5. You scour the party store flyers the moment they come to your house. 6. Your excuse for declining a date is, “Sorry, but I'm working on my fairy wings this Saturday.” This is not a lie. 7. Your reading list is looking rather...historical...these days. 8. Lately you've been eyeing your dog and wondering if he'd make a better unicorn or dragon. 9. You haven't jousted since last fall and you're afraid you're out of practice. 10. These days you're saving all your money for one thing. It starts with an 'r' and ends in 'enaissance faire.' The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Spencer Turner's Battery ParkBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com © Spencer Turner, Bprva Spencer Turner—a native Richmonder, arts professional, and creative educator—takes inspiration from the urban landscapes of Richmond, Virginia's Battery Park, the neighborhood where tennis player Arthur Ashe honed the skills that eventually made him a Wimbledon star. #Bprva is not just a Tumblr page; it's, as Turner describes it, a "repository of photos...that explore the people, places and spaces of Battery Park - Richmond, Virginia." These simple, raw photos capture the old, haunted nature of a neighborhood that's in a constant state of transformation. Turner is also interested in posting other people's Battery Park photos (and writing!). Send your submissions to: bprva13@gmail.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
An Unqualified Employee Tries not to FailBy Mike Long QuailBellMagazine.com For two months during 2011, I was mistakenly hired and maintained a job as an assistant-chef at the Museum of Asian Art in San Francisco. It was a mistake because at the time, I had never worked in a kitchen in any capacity. Or used a knife, really. I had just finished college in Washington where I split my time between working at a pizza place, studying art music, and walking around in the woods. My partner is from the Bay Area, so after college, we packed up all of our possessions into her old Volvo and headed to the land of opportunities in an old, sweaty, station-wagon. When we arrived, I surveyed my new home: My girlfriend's old home, complete with original parents still intact, probably concerned that we had failed to figure out a career path. While I relished the thought of living out my days bearded, in the basement of her very successful and well-studied parents, it seemed like I should go ahead and get started on my dream job. Unfortunately, since my dreams have always been bizarre, meaningless and twisted like a big ball of friendly snakes, it was impossible to figure out where to begin. Like being in a house of mirrors, I was paralyzed by too many reflections, realities, and choices. As my funds dwindled and I began to feel burdensome as the resident guest of the house, I set out to find some work, even if it wasn't “the dream.” With a pencil behind my ear, a stout cup of coffee, and a quiet Californian morning in my midst, I attacked Craigslist like a pack of wild dogs, tearing the “food/bev/hosp” section apart like wounded prey. I applied to pretty much every job, including a few listings seeking architects, and sat back to let the responses flood in. And flood in they did not. But there was a trickle. I received a call with a voice on the line asking if would come in for an interview.
“Ahh, yeah, where is this?” I asked, since I really had no idea which ad was responding. “For Cafe Asia, in Asian Art museum.” she said. “You need address?” “No, I've got it. I'll see you tomorrow.” And that was how I become an assistant chef in the Museum of Asian Art. I am not from San Francisco which made the circumstances of my hire all the more stressful. I am from a city of 3,000 people in Washington state, so being in such a huge city made me tingle with nervous excitement. I clearly remember taking a series of buses to the museum and as I had freshly plopped into the big, flashy city that so many people love so well, I was transfixed by excitement and made sick by anxiety. When I get nervous I salivate and yawn, and many bore witness to the pigeon-toed guy walking toward the Asian Art Museum, in the heart of downtown, yawning and drooling. I awkwardly informed a woman bussing tables that I was there for an interview and she seated me in a corner seat. I tapped my feet wildly looking around the spacious cafe that smelled of Japan, Korea, China, and Lysol. Eventually a short, squat Filipino woman in her 60's came and sat down. She looked preoccupied when she waddled up but she radiated unfiltered joy when she smiled. Her questions were terse and to the point, delivered in a rough, truncated version of English. She had floppish, short, dark hair and thick glasses. Her hands were still skillful and quick despite her age. “Okay, hello,” she began, shaking her head up and down and smiling as she spoke. She spoke as though continuing a previous conversation. I stood up, extending my hand, and saw that I towered over her. “Hello,” I said, nervously. She quite launched into the interview. “You work with Asian food before?” She questioned, tilting her head down and peering at the sweaty alien that sat before her. “Uh, well, not professionally, but I have a lot of experience with prep-work and...noodle based dishes.” I should say at this point that. I had no idea what I was talking about and I was committed to the road of deceit in order to get the job. I had worked for three years in a pizza place, and I figured I could make that seem like a transferrable set of skills to working as a chef with Asian food. I could, I reasoned, justify it because I would, given time, do the job as well as anyone else. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Motor City as Art MeccaBy Brainy Bird QuailBellMagazine.com Art, like God, has the power to heal and redeem. Right now, Detroit, Michigan needs a messiah. That messiah could be arts initiatives.
Unless you've had your head in the sand, you know that the City of Detroit filed for Chapter 9 bankruptcy on July 18, 2013. The damage? Upwards of $20 billion in a city home to 700,000, making it the largest city (by population) to file for Chapter 9 bankruptcy in the history of the United States. While many people have objected to this filing, the fact remains that Detroit is hurting badly. Detroit has a long history as a manufacturing city, but the U.S. is no longer a place for unskilled factory labor. In fact, it's not really a place for factories at all. What it has and always will be known for is its innovation. The U.S. is a country of thinkers, writers, inventors, artists, and entrepreneurs. Simply put, it is a country of creativity. Maybe our kiddies don't perform as well on standardized tests as kiddies in so many other industrialized countries, but this is still the land where things that change lives and ways of thinking are thought up and blueprinted. Americans are “squishy” thinkers. Detroit, like several other post-industrial cities before it (namely Pittsburgh), should consider reinventing itself as an arts destination. The money can come from well-off suburbanites and national grant-giving foundations. Organizations like the National Endowment for the Arts are just the place to start. Then there are plenty of corporations who could probably be persuaded into donating money for museums, theaters, galleries, festivals and more. Patti Smith has already suggested that Detroit is the next New York. Make Detroit a cultural hot spot and culture vultures from across the country—even the world—will swarm to it. This is a long-term solution, not a quick fix. So get started, Detroit. As for non-residents of the Motor City? You have an obligation, too. This is a major American city that has fallen into disrepair. Take out your toolbox. We can do this. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Not-so Secret AdmirationA few weeks ago, I had the great opportunity to contact Postertext.com about a possible blogging partnership with us here at QuailBellMagazine.com. Immediately, I was greeted by the founder, Peter Kao. His email was one of the nicest that I had received that day (especially as I sifted through disappointment after disappointment.) He was thrilled to begin a partnership with us, so much so that he sent me my own personal print of The Picture of Dorian Gray, my all-time favorite book. What a sweetheart! The idea behind Postertext started as a gift for a friend of Peter’s. Then he turned his hobby into his job. Postertext takes some of your favorite classic books and prints the art from those books onto a poster made entirely of the words from the books. It is such a brilliant idea! These posters are beautiful and intriguing. For now, most of the classics are available and range from books like Beowulf to The Scarlett Letter to Little Women to The Time Machine. Poster Text is looking into expanding its book posters to include some of the most popular ones such as The Lord of the Rings, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and Harry Potter. They are always open to suggestions and are readily available and quick to reply to your questions. This is one of the greatest online stores that I have come across as a book lover. They also have a blog which is incredibly entertaining, as well. What more do I need to say? Check it out! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Bring Back the Brown BagBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com I pack my lunch because my grandmother didn't have a microwave when she was my age. Lean Cuisine was not an option and you can bet your bottom dollar that she thought McD's was a kids' thing when she was my age.
I pack my lunch because, historically, that's what people have done. They've had lunch pails. They've saved money. They've known, at least more or less, what they were putting in their bodies. Sometimes it's not worth changing history. I pack my lunch because I don't like Applebee's. I don't like Ruby Tuesday. I don't like Chili's. I like to eat meals that people—not a corporation—thought up. I like to imagine someone's nana in the kitchen, trying out recipes, peppering this and that just the way her favorite customers like their food. If I eat out for lunch, I'm going to support my community. I pack my lunch because it feels good and I know it's good. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Writers Yelling at WritersBy Anon QuailBellMagazine.com It's easy to play the part of the chameleon as an intern. Just sink into your cardigan a little, hunch over your desk, and watch the office drama take the stage. Drama thrives everywhere, but any office full of creative people is likely to make drama a mantra. I've seen dirty deeds and have plenty of sketchy stories from my days as an intern in the arts and journalism worlds. Yet I've only ever seen someone get fired once. She was by far the oldest person in the office, or at least the years spent mending her broken heart while on the road had taken a toll on her body. She made her living as a travel writer, but had fantasies of penning bestselling fiction. It should come as no surprise then that she had lived and been everywhere. At the time, she maintained two homes about 1,500 miles apart from each other. Working on a temporary project for the publication where I was interning happened to be her version of retirement. I couldn't resist her sense of humor or the way she made her writing sparkle. She'd take me out for lunch and, over a slice of chocolate cake, she'd spin yarns about cities I could only imagine visiting. I fell in love with her the way a kid falls in love with Grandma. When our boss swung by, she was a different person: uptight, snappy. She resented our boss, who was much younger, much perkier, and much less experienced than she was. Our boss had come by the job honestly but, perhaps, according to some, too easily. Our boss was simply too young, everyone told me over and over again. I did not see what they meant then. I did not ask questions; I blended in with the wallpaper.
I observed the way our boss talked to her. Our boss found her annoying. Our boss did not appreciate her sparkle. Our boss wanted results. All she wanted to do was tell stories. The job had required more technical knowledge than she had anticipated. The days leading up to the blow-up, she would confide in me. She couldn't stand our boss. She was going to quit. She was a writer and she was meant to write, not bother with data entry—even if such technical fiddling meant giving her the fodder she needed to write certain stories. The day she meant to quit, our boss called her into her office after we returned from lunch. I heard yelling. A lot of it. Then a quiet fell after the storm. She marched out our boss's door and grabbed her bag and coat from her desk. Before she left, she scrawled her phone number and email address on a Post-It. I took the piece of yellow paper from her wrinkled hand and put it in my purse. I'd email her a week later and receive no response. When our—my—boss emerged several minutes later, she tersely explained what had happened. I spent the rest of my internship eating chocolate cake by myself. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
One Big HikeI can’t say I’m completely wild about Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed which was next up on my 65 Book Challenge, but all the same I found that it wasn’t too bad as far as entertaining reading goes. My Goodreads four star rating perhaps partially reflects some of my thoughts on this hiking memoir and its author, but all the same I’d like to explore a bit more why this work was both moving and surprisingly mysterious. Wild revolves around Cheryl Strayed and her varied reactions to a deeply impacting tragedy. Although it takes some time, Strayed finally decides that the best way to deal with her heart-rending grief is to hike 1,100 miles across what is known as the Pacific Crest Trail or, simply, the PCT. To some extent, this is a book of female empowerment. As women, many of us know that at times we have to be much more careful when traveling alone and even more so when traveling through isolated and dangerous regions. In Wild Cheryl Strayed tackles this common issue head on. How? She hikes 1,100 miles all by herself. Yep, you heard right. Alone. Solo. With no one else. It’s not that Cheryl is braver than any one of us. She is terrified of the same things: the night-time noises, the men with possibly bad intentions, the occasional wild animal, but she discovers that she has to manage her fear. And in Wild she teaches a lesson that can apply to anyone, whether male or female, and that is that you cannot allow yourself to be governed by your fear. Cheryl Strayed tells her story in Wild with the same straightforward grit and determination that surely carried her across over a thousand miles. The writing is neither humorous nor sad; Strayed finds a nice middle ground and sticks to it loyally throughout her memoir. My only complaint with Wild is that I felt Cheryl Strayed failed on at least one account: although she made me want to go out and do something crazy and adventurous like hike the PCT, at the same time she didn’t manage to win me over to her side. One of my favorite parts of reading memoirs is being able to empathize with the author. While I did see Strayed’s difficulties and did my best to understand them, I could not feel for her as if those same tragedies were happening to me. All in all, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail by Cheryl Strayed is a must-read if you are curious about hiking, enjoy the outdoors, or simply love to read fascinating memoirs. Be sure to join in on our next two reads: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz and A Home at the End of the World by Michael Cunningham. Happy reading! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Night of Seven MilesBy Sparrow Goddess QuailBellMagazine.com That night was a Wednesday. I could not bear to sleep. I feared I would not wake up. So instead I laced up my sneakers and walked. All I had on me was a fanny pack and a water bottle.
I walked seven miles from my house to my lover's. I did not have a car then, but even if I had, I would not have used it. I needed to remind myself that I was alive. I would not die in my sleep because I was healthy. I could take deep breaths and long strides. I was the picture of a fit youth. Those seven miles were not leisurely ones. Back then, we lived in an area never intended for pedestrians. It was a kingdom of SUVs and city buses at the end of their routes. Sidewalks were available less than half of the way and were, for the most part, broken. Fragments of pavement dipped in and out at odd angles, forming the perfect place to twist an ankle block after block. The streetlights were another matter. The few that lit my precarious path were dim. I bore witness to two lights flicker and burn out, putting an end to whatever moth party had been going down in their vicinity. The first time I heard a human voice that didn't come from a car radio, it came from a lusty taxi driver. He was filling up at a gas station and I was shuffling past him as quickly as I could. He asked if I needed a ride, but we both knew what he was implying. He slapped the top of his car to catch my attention. I pretended not to understand him. Not knowing English did not seem too odd in a neighborhood full of immigrants. Instead, I kept walking, preferring to be confused for an aimless traveler than a restless girl walking seven miles in the middle of the night for no good reason. I endured a couple of car horns and cat calls later on, but, mostly, my walk was a silent one. It was so quiet that I detected the slightest rustling of bushes off of the road. It was a possum trying to decide if he wanted to cross four lanes. When he saw me, he thought against it and disappeared into the shrubs. I had never seen the shopping centers so empty. I had never seen this road with so few cars. For the first time in a long time, I could actually appreciate the sound of silence. Somewhere a pin dropped and a Honda Pilot didn't rush to crush it. When I got to my lover's house, I played out the scene from a thousand movies. I threw pebbles at his window. At first, this adolescent action yielded no response. I tried again. Nothing. While my muscles burned, he was tucked in, dreaming. Then I got the idea to scratch his window screen. That woke him up. He ambled to his front door, opened it, stared at me for a good moment, and then took me in his arms. From there, I crawled into his bed and finally fell asleep. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Navy Yard RampageDear fledglings,
We want to extend our love and condolences to everyone and anyone affected by yesterday's trolling gunman in Washington, D.C.'s Navy Yard. Keep a clear mind and stay safe. We're here for you with art and letters and magic. Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Don't deny your dating patterns!By Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com Beatnik, hippie, punk, goth, hipster—whatever kind of counter-culture gal you are, one thing's for sure: There are some fellas you just can't avoid. Here are the five guys every alternative woman flirts with, dates, and maybe even falls in love with:
1. The Art School Drop-out: He's incredibly talented but about as motivated as a sea cucumber. He draws, draws, and draws, usually in energetic bursts that last days, and then suddenly stops. After that, he might not draw again for weeks or even months. Then it's off to video games or skateboarding or pot, maybe all three. Professors frustrated him and he didn't have the patience to play by the rules, so he ditched college the moment he saw an out. It's okay. At least he doesn't have to fret over student loans or put up with dorm food. Besides, you know he'll go back or get by on his natural talent. Maybe he'll exhibit in a big gallery and strike it rich. Someday... 2. The Poet-Philosopher-Professor: He's a brainiac who sneers at the bourgeoisie, chugs coffee, and owns enough books to cover every surface in his house. In fact, he's already done that. There's not an empty space on a shelf or table anywhere. He makes a habit out of reading these books, quoting them in casual conversation, and reminding everyone—including you—of the futility of life, of love, of everything. Since he's obsessed with death, it's no surprise he earned his Ph.D. After all, it's a terminal degree. (Drum crash.) He's confident it'll get a prestigious academic press to notice his novel/memoir/poetry collection. Maybe one day he'll take himself a little less seriously, but don't hold your breath. Apply to grad school instead. He might help you get tenure--after he's secured it himself. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Off the CanvasBy Misty Thomas QuailBellMagazine.com Since the days of punk, Richmond, Virginia has been well known for its somewhat colorful characters and now it has become even more so. With the rise of street art projects, particularly murals, brightening up the city, I have seen many colorful additions during my six months here. When I first visited Richmond, I was surprised by the colorful artwork near the Canal Walk and the Shockoe Flood Wall Power Plant. That was actually where the Richmond Street Art Festival was held last year. The colorful art here is a huge attraction to tourists and Richmond natives. It is one of the first spots that I show people when they come to visit me. This year’s Street Art Festival was held on September 11th through 15th in Carytown. It was organized by Jon Bailes and Ed Trask, who helped organize last year’s as well. This year—yet again—the festival was a huge success! There were some great artists who expressed themselves with paint, sculpture, and mixed media. These artists came from all over the country to help brighten up the walls of the old GRTC bus depot on Cary Street. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Don't stand up straight.Oh, times are tough in the middle ages. All the decent young men are fighting in crusades or dying of plague. I mean what's a girl got to do to get a date? Bend over backwards? Well...yes, actually. BUH DUM CHING!!!! As the Black Plague killed off millions and millions of people, those remaining alive had the task of repopulation. Thus to be fertile was to be beautiful. To project her fertility, a lady would bend back and stick our her abdomen, mimicking how it looks to be pregnant. This body posture has been called the 'gothic slouch.' Even as the plague finished doing what it does best, the fertile look continued to be popular. Here (left) is the famous Arnolfini Portrait from the 15th century. The woman in the portrait isn't pregnant, but she is holding up some of the extra fabric in her dress to simulate a pregnant belly, symbolizing that she is fertile and will soon give her new husband many sons who will carry on the grand Arnolfini pimp-hat-wearing tradition. In an age where life expectancy was extremely short and most of your children would die before adulthood, the best thing a woman could be was very fertile. Marriages weren't necessarily about finding someone you love or even someone you vaguely get along with, although that was great if that happened. Marriage was most importantly about procreation. The family name had to be carried on, and that meant at least one son who lived to adulthood and have children of his own. That also meant surviving multiple pregnancies (even just having the child could very easily kill you), and your chances of survival would be greater if there was more fat around your lower body. By sticking out your abdomen, you give the illusion of a plump lower body which will help you survive many childbirths. Compare this to today, where any sign of belly fat is abhorred. With the improvement of medical technology, childbirth is not nearly as dangerous and most children live into adulthood. Therefore a woman does not need to show that she has enough belly fat to survive childbirth, because these days she doesn't need that. And because weight doesn't have as much effect over the ability to survive multiple childbirths, signs of fertility are not tied up in how much belly fat a woman has. Furthermore, many couples choose not to have any children at all, society having developed to a point where having many children is no longer an absolute requirement. (Mothers desiring grandchildren, however, are another matter entirely). Marriage has become mainly about finding someone you love, someone who makes you happy, and someone who, in some ways, makes life easier. So now the ideal for a woman is to stand up straight and suck it in. Unless you're Paris Hilton. She doesn't have bad posture. She's just trying to bring back the gothic slouch! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
All Winners and LosersBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com A lease lures no one, but the perfectly phrased rental ad does all the time, every day. No matter the city, there's always someone looking for shelter. Some people want a palace. Some people simply want four walls. Some people don't even ask for that much; they're satisfied with a sofa or a place to throw down a sleeping bag. With the Great Recession, I doubt there's an urban-dwelling twenty-something alive who doesn't know at least one person their age who's turned couchsurfing as a means of avoiding the rain and rent at once. Usually it is a matter of money. Sometimes it is a matter of logistics. Not too infrequently, it is a matter of both. When an older friend graduated from college my sophomore year, I later learned that he had spent his last semester at the mercy of friends and classmates. On the nights when they closed their doors to him, he slept in his car. As the temperatures began to fall, he kept himself warm by burrowing deep into the pile of his belongings, nestled like a mouse. His mother had fallen gravely ill and the money that would've gone toward his college apartment went toward her health expenses instead. With only four months left in the city, it made little sense for him to sign a lease. I once met another young man who suffered a similar situation. In hushed tones at a party, he divulged his secret of living in his car for a whole semester. After a couple of nights worth of couchsurfing, he decided not to bother anyone any longer. Every night after that, he would pull up onto dark streets in the scummiest sections of the city to escape notice. He'd close his eyes and let the sounds of gunshots and police sirens lull him to dream land. He rightfully assumed that the cops had more pressing matters to attend to than an innocent overnight parking violation. One night, that assumption made an ass out of him. He woke up to the clicks, clacks, and whirs of his car getting towed. He jumped out of his car, pleaded with the tow-truck driver, and evaded a huge fine because of his desperate state. Yet for every person who can make do calling his car home, there are at least a dozen more who demand a castle with a moat and high-speed Internet. About a year ago, my then-roommates and I made an evening out of penning the perfect Craigslist ad for a vacant room in our house. The trick was to be honest about the room, the house, and ourselves while still making the whole deal sound attractive. It was a challenge. We lived in a dump. We were three very different people with different expectations. Roommates' attitudes ranged from mine—hardly caring because I was hardly ever home—to those of one who insisted on having family-style dinners together every night. The room's greatest virtue was its sticker price: cheap enough for even the most frugal monk. After a lot of groping for buzz words, we wrote a winning ad. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Phenomenon of the Japanese RecluseAt the age of fifteen, an Japanese adolescent identified only as Takeshi withdrew into his bedroom and failed to emerge for more than four years. Not only did he refuse to attend school or get a job, Takeshi spent 23 hours a day in his tiny bedroom eating food prepared by his mother, watching television, and listening to Radiohead and Nirvana. As he would later admit in a New York Times interview, his music choices were shaped by his somber mood. "Anything that was dark and sounded desperate," he said through an interpreter.
Finally leaving his bedroom and rejoining the world, Takeshi credited the music he listened to for the decision to leave his parents' house and enrolling in a job-training program. "Don't laugh, but musicians really helped me, especially Radiohead," he said. "That's what encouraged me to leave my room." In Japan, it is known as hikikomori which means "pulling inward" or "being confined." Long a part of Japanese culture (with an odd scattering of cases in South Korea and Taiwan), adolescents and young adults such as Takeshi would completely withdraw from the world with no external contact but their parents. At least 40% of all hikikimori are under 21. While the actual incidence is still hard to estimate since not all cases come to the attention of government agencies, there seems little doubt that the number has soared in the past two decades. According to one report from Japan's Minister of Internal Affairs, there could be as many as 3,600,000 hikikomori in Japan, though this number is controversial given the lack of a clear definition. Though often regarded as a culture-specific disorder, cases of extreme social withdrawal are found in all societies. The number of hikikomori cases reported may include older adults who have voluntarily withdrawn from the world or who suffer from a broader mental disorder that can mimic the symptoms. The term hikikimori is believed to have been coined by Japanese psychiatrist Tamaki Saito. He described it as, "A state that has become a problem by the late twenties, that involves cooping oneself up in one’s own home and not participating in society for six months or longer, but that does not seem to have another psychological problem as its principal source." More recently, researchers have proposed the following criteria for diagnosis:
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Your Dose of Kooky High FashionBy Sidney Shuman QuailBellMagazine.com Last week, New York Fashion Week set the stage for Spring 2014 Ready to Wear. The ten strangest looks I saw at New York Fashion Week 2013 came for four different brands: Honor, Jeremy Scott, Nicholas K., and Zac Posen. These four designers bring very different inspirations and messages, but their commonality is their overall strangeness: Honor Creative Director Giovanna Randall’s fairytale and folklore inspiration of this line produced many beautiful looks within Honor’s Spring 2014 collection, but this look was a strange combination of fit issues and a strange balance of negative space within the textile pattern.
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A Book for Feminists in the MakingPeople at the Center of Women’s Suffrage, by Deborah Kops, Blackbirch Press: 2004 by Deborah Kops Rather than covering the suffrage movement as a whole (except for an overview at the beginning), People at the Center of Women's Suffrage gives short profiles of fifteen women important in the struggle. I appreciated that instead of starting with the Elizabeth Cady Stanton/Susan B Anthony/Lucretia Mott era, the work begins much earlier; it includes information about Margaret Brent (“First American Woman to Demand the Right to Vote” in the 1600s) and Mary Wollstonecraft (“Her Writing Inspired Early Suffragist Leaders.”) I’d never read about Margaret Brent in a children’s book about the quest for the vote, so I particularly appreciated seeing her here. The author, Deborah Kops, does a very good job of including interesting details in her coverage. For instance, she writes of Carrie Chapman Catt that, “By 1890, she was so passionate about the cause that her second husband, George William Catt, had to agree she could work for women’s suffrage four months out of the year before she would marry him.” However, there were also a few notable omissions. For instance, Lucy Stone’s marriage isn’t mentioned in her profile. This saddens me because I think her marriage is an excellent example of people refusing to be bound by convention and instead creating their own, more equal, relationship. Perhaps instead of including a picture of Oberlin College, the biography could have been a touch more comprehensive. (I may be biased, though, as a proud “Lucy Stoner…she was the first recorded American woman to not take her husband’s name upon marriage, saying, 'A wife should no more take her husband’s name than he should hers.') The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Suspicious Start to Your Weekend—NOW OVER!Editor's Note: We didn't want to talk about Friday the 13th ON Friday the 13th because that would probably amount to a double curse. Now that the coast is clear, here ya go—a belated post but belated for your own safety. Hey, and ours, too. -CS It seemed that Friday 13th had struck me down. I started the day by lying in bed with a jumper on looking like a sallow lump of pale flesh. Hello, ladies.
Good job I'm not superstitious then, but because it's such a notorious day I thought I'd talk about where it might have come from and why people tend to fear it so much in some countries. The most popular theory is that the belief comes from the Last Supper having 13 people at the table, as in the Christian religion, Judas Iscariot was the betrayer of Christ. Also, Jesus was apparently crucified on a Friday, the same day that Cain slew Able. However, I find this theory to be quite a strange one, especially when you consider that Italy, a country jam packed with Catholics, actually considers the number 13 to be lucky and rather Friday 17th to be the unlucky day. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
When's the last time you visited our 'About' blog?Dear fledglings,
Did you know that we post news and general announcements about Quail Bell Magazine and our parent company, Quail Bell Press & Productions, on our About blog? Check out what we're doing and where we're going. We might even be coming to your town! Not sure what we're up to? Here are just two current endeavors (click on the images below to go to their Facebook pages.) Enjoy that first nip of fall. We certainly are. Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
From a Southern Belle to a Quail Bell(e)By Misty Thomas QuailBellMagazine.com When I decided to move to Richmond, Virginia from Atlanta, I had a completely different idea of how things were going to play out in my head. That was in March. I came here expecting a huge change, a complete and total new life with a new job and new friends and new habits and no reminders of the past. Some could say I ran and I ran as soon as I had the chance. Others might envy me, saying that I took a much needed step they could not take because family or children or a significant other were tying them to a place they wish they could escape. I find it difficult to say exactly if I was running away from my past. A past that included bad habits and a boyfriend that I lost due to suicide. My head was ready to go, as was my heart. I knew that Atlanta would always be home to me because of my family and a handful of close friends, but I knew that I had to escape it, if only for a little while. Occupationally, things did not at all go how I had expected them to go. In the hopes that I would be in a job that paid me well to work with people I trusted, some things did not quite feel right, so I looked elsewhere. I started applying for freelance writing jobs anywhere that I could and landed quite a few. Then one day I decided to look at Craigslist in hopes that I would find something different. Keep in mind, I was training at a new bar and learning to be the new girl...again. This is a rough place to be for a 35 year old journalist in graduate school just trying to get that degree so she can teach. I went straight to the writing jobs in hopes that I would see something that I would be qualified for. I found an ad, and I dug up my old resume from when I was writing at two sites and running my own online magazine and I hit send. Who knew that I would wind up in a position with some awesome women who inspire me everyday? Let me backtrack really quickly. Before I ended up at Quail Bell Magazine, I started me job at the new bar. It was in a place that I was unfamiliar with, far from my neighborhood, and filled with younger, perkier versions of myself, all of them fighting for position and rank. That was something I have never had to do. I just did my job and I felt like my rewards were earned. I had some early training sessions, so before I would go in, I'd go to the cafe in the same shopping plaza, have lunch and write. I recently found one of the first proclamations that I made to the universe about Richmond, and it's funny because it took this long for me to realize that something or someone really does listen or even read my thoughts. |
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