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Because we're hungry and lazy...By The Quail Bell Crew QuailBellMagazine.com Dear fledglings,
Since our tongues are hanging out and our brains can only focus on turkey and all the trimmings right now, here are some ol' pics we've posted on (or at least near) Thanksgiving since 2011. Enjoy our old pictures as a reminder of our laziness, and don't forget to say grace and, if possible, donate your time today. Not to lecture, just a reminder. We'll be back "on it" on Monday...same as you. Happy Thanksgiving! Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hot Chocolate and a Walk Around the BlockBy QB Philosophe QuailBellMagazine.com “There are no wrong turnings. Only paths we had not known we were meant to walk.” Once, a friend and I had jumped into my Jeep at the last minute, hoping to make the Black Maria Film Festival in Charlottesville. We had almost exactly an hour between the time my friend's class ended and the time the showing we wanted to make began. We were so confident that we could make it. After all, we had started off in Richmond, so it couldn't take us that long to get there. The whole ride, both of us were talking like a pair of parakeets. We had the music blasting and we kept laughing. We were having such a great conversation that we didn't notice that we were still on 95 until we were all the way in Thornburg! By then it was much too late to get onto 64 and head to Charlottesville, so we continued to Fredericksburg, where we popped into a coffee shop and walked around historic downtown until it was time to go home. I wouldn't change that night for anything. -Anon fairy punk Follow Quail Bell Magazine on Facebook for behind-the-scenes looks, shout-outs, calls to action, giveaways, and more!
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Please lose the game of gentrification…please By Brainy Byrd QuailBellMagazine.com Once upon a time there was a neighborhood in Washington, D.C. called Anacostia and many white, upper-middle class people who had never set foot there were terrified of it because black people called it home. Oh, wait. That neighborhood still exists and this same demographic is still scared of something they don’t know or understand. On October 23rd, <Urbane/> published a satirical map called, “Washington, D.C. Neighborhoods Revealed: Beyond Politics,” and labeled all of Southeast the “zone of perceived danger” as a jab at these uptight, ignorant ninnies. As you’ll note from the reader comments on the post, many people misinterpreted the map, thinking the joke was on Southeast. Really, the joke was on people who only perceived Southeast as being one way instead of actually making an effort to become familiar with the area. Online and offline, the joke is on anyone who casts judgments on Anacostia and sees it as a wasteland with no potential. I would be foolish to say that Anacostia is not without its problems (read City Data’s stats on the neighborhood), but I would be equally foolish to say it has no redeeming value. Back in January, I wrote a piece called, “Anacostia—the next H Street? Try Old Town,” which was later referenced by Vol. 1 Brooklyn, as a suggestion for how the city, community, and developers might consider changing Anacostia for the better while still maintaining its cultural and historical integrity. I never once said—and hope I never implied—that Anacostia needs a Starbucks or any of the other trappings of gentrification. Not anything against Starbucks per se, but putting one up isn’t necessarily going to improve a neighborhood’s socio-cultural identity and self-esteem. And since I’m on this note, why don’t talk about what else Anacostia doesn’t need? For starters, here are three things:
1. Fancy condos that lead to displacement: The healthiest communities are mixed income communities. I am fine with people of means moving to Anacostia if it means that the neighborhood’s current residents will still have a home. People should not be forced to move just because Mr. Deep Pockets decided he and all his friends wanted Victorians with wrap-around porches and river views. If Mr. Deep Pockets would like to buy one of the abandoned homes, treat his new neighbors with courtesy and respect, and also donate money to a nearby school, community center, or shelter, let’s throw down the doormat for his shiny shoes and maybe even a potluck in his honor. 2. Charter school after charter school: C’mon, D.C. Start by improving standard neighborhood schools before you even consider bringing in expensive models that only serve a small percentage of local students. Parents should not have to play the lottery to ensure their kids get a decent education. Not all children perform well on the kinds of standardized tests and interviews charter schools normally hold to determine who get a golden ticket. 3. Sparkly, luxury supermarkets: Right now, grocery options are limited in Anacostia. There’s not a true supermarket in all the neighborhood. But that doesn’t mean everyone’s hankering for a Whole Foods. How about a Safeway, Kroger, or Food Lion? Some place people can go to choose nutritious food at reasonable prices from a relatively varied selection. Let’s get this list rolling! What are other things Anacostia doesn’t need? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I Was Born with a Stage NameBy Fay Funk QuailBellMagazine.com "So, do you like to get down and/or do you know what that smell is?” the boy in my tenth grade science class asked, with a slight flicker of humor across his face. I sighed inwardly. I had known what was coming. I had just told him my full name. Faylani Rae Funk. This boy and I had been in the same classes for over a year, but he only knew me by my nickname, Fay. That was intentional. I could tell the moment I met him what he would do when he heard my name: make a bad joke about it. Years of experience backed up my prediction. It’s the kind of thing you learn fast if you have a weird name.
I was born with a stage name, given to me by a mother who insisted on giving both of her daughters creative names that no one else in had. My name has two sources: the first is the 1988 winner of the Miss America Pageant, Kaye Lani Rae Rafko. For reasons I’ll never understand, my mom loves beauty pageants, and she thought Kaye Lani was the most beautiful name she had ever heard. But she also wanted alliteration in my name, and with a last name of Funk that meant she needed an F. That’s where the second source of my name comes from: 1930's star of King Kong, actress Fay Wray. Fay gave my mom the alliteration she desired, and Wray fit poetically with the original inspiration for my name. So I became Faylani Rae. Funk is a Dutch last name. My father is of Dutch-Irish descent. Like my sister and I, he endured plenty of jokes growing up. As a young man he almost changed his last name to Townshend, as in Pete Townshend from The Who. Perhaps realizing that changing his last name to that of a famous rock star’s would not stop the music jokes, he didn’t go through with it. Anyone with an unusual name hears a lot of jokes. The frequent joking made me realize I had an unusual name in the first place, and is the first thing that comes to mind when anyone asks me about my name. The jokes about my name are mostly musical. References to Parliament/Funkadelic and James Brown are common, though the most obnoxious comes courtesy of Michael Jackson and Vincent Price. People will ask me, with a wicked glint in their eyes, if I know anything about “the funk of forty thousand years,” a line from the song “Thriller,” referring to the smell of a recently opened crypt. It was the same reference the boy from my science class was making and one that I didn’t get, having fastidiously avoided ever listening to anything from the album Thriller until Michael Jackson was dead. I recall a girl from my high school being absolutely shocked when I didn’t recognize “Billie Jean” playing on the radio. I chose not to explain why; I knew she was a joker, and I wasn’t about to give her any ammo. I can see the humor in my name, and made right I can sometimes find the jokes funny. I will always cringe a little when I hear that line from “Thriller” though. Jokes are harmless, whether funny or irritating. But my weird name can affect people’s perception of me. I have the kind of name a flamboyant entertainer would choose for madcap performances. Many people assume I just made it up. It doesn’t help that I play bass guitar. Had I chosen my name it would be the clumsiest, most ham-handed stage name of all time, calling myself after the genre of music for which my instrument is most known. It’s easy to think I must be a contrived attention-seeker. That’s what happened when I received my roommate assignment for college. I had two roommates, and excitedly sent Facebook friend requests to both of them. One did not respond right away, and seemed reserved at first. I learned later that she received my Facebook request long before the official housing letter from NYU. My name plus a profile picture of me playing bass led her to believe I was the kind of jerk who insists on going by a stage name in my daily life. She spent a few weeks afraid that she was going be living with an insufferable idiot for her first year of college, until the official letter arrived and she saw it was my real name. She’s one of my best friends now and I think it’s funny that she was so concerned, but it makes me wonder—have other people thought that about me? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Jewelry for Your WordsIf you could rename Black Friday—a bizarre & uniquely American cultural phenomenon—what would you call it? Tell us here and you could win these fairy earrings designed by Red Lintu—one for you and one for a friend! Just comment on this post and like Quail Bell Magazine on Facebook for a chance to win! Winner will be announced December 1st. Please share this post, and happy holidays!
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The Great EscapeI spent some time at the overlook, in a sunbeam, on a hill on the grass with a friend, looking up at the sky, at the James River digging the last of the autumn leaves. Saying good-bye.
I'm trying to think of what I wont miss. VCU campus traffic may be it. No one knows what to do when, everyone has a, “I do what I want” attitude, and when on my bike, not a day goes by that I either want to kill someone or almost get killed by someone. But, yeah, no, there really ain't much to not love about Richmond, Virginia. There are many reasons one moves somewhere else I guess. I moved to Richmond for new opportunities and for the vibrant culture. I had been visiting for years. I loved the wild bohemian vibe of RVA. There was always too much to do: rad house shows, bicycle gang events, art exhibitions, ridiculous dance parties, sweet diners and cafés and bars, and meeting so many fun people. In 2007, I signed the lease and moved into a house in Oregon Hill proper with a group of friends from Danville. Those first years at the Red Love House were mad! So much fun was had raging all over the city, so many laughs at that house, and so many memories of our porch couch and all the antics and adventures we shared. I especially adored Oregon Hill, my shabby-chic neighborhood in the heart of the city, I could walk to the river or to the cemetery or downtown or to campus in no time and could bike almost anywhere else in 10 or 20 minutes. Life here is easy. One of those easy-living staples is the $100 room. There are always those cheap-rent houses in Richmond with sinks full of dishes, hallways spilling over with bikes, every room rented out as a bedroom. Most of these houses have a $100 room—a shed, or a spot under the stairs, or a closet. I am sitting in my closet room now, the walls are bare and a few boxes contain all the stuff I'm taking with me. In a week I am heading home to Danville for Thanksgiving. I am not coming back to Richmond. I am not coming back to this city full of friends. Not going to anymore Totally Tight Monday Nights, no more epic doom shows at Strange Matter, or chill folk Sunday nights at Helen's. So long Belle Isle, Byrd Theatre, The Fan. Adios to the awesome life I have made here, The Rear Gallery, a very active film career and a budding art career. I am moving y'all, to New Mexico. My mentor and I have been talking about Taos for about 8 years now. He has a friend there and could possibly hook me up with a job. I was very interested as I was 30 and had never lived anywhere but Danville. My yearning for experience had me restless and it had always been a dream of mine to move to a place where I didn't know a soul and just make it work. It was just a dream, running off to some other place. I mean, at the time, we were actually at the peak of an exciting art and culture scene in Danville. I was at the top of my game working at the Danville Museum, working at the North Theatre, publishing a 'zine. There were bands and artists in this weird nowhere town really making it an awesome place to be. A couple years later though, it started to fade as many of the young people part of the scene went off to school. I stuck around until I had to flee like a cultural refugee to Richmond. And so here I am now, 38. I just had the best year of my life. I am feeling good about my art, I am working constantly in film, and I am surrounded by great friends. And I am moving. When I was offered the opportunity in Taos, I didn't think, I just jumped on it. Totally excited for new adventures, new life experiences, facing new challenges and meeting new people. Yeah, let's do this! But then I started packing. Getting rid of things and selling stuff at my house and my studio. I started thinking about how I won't see my friends all the time. Who will I go to brunch with? Who is gonna bike with me to the show? Will I only know my Richmond friends through Facebook posts? “Why am I doing this?” I wondered. So I began researching Taos online. Oh wow! Yes, it seems like that chill Shangri-la, artist-centic sacred native medicine land that I remembered hearing of. But, oh shit, they don't have metal shows?! Oh crap. And back and forth. A week away from leaving Richmond, I am ready. I want it. It is time to take a leap, to go for it, to go somewhere I don't know a soul and just make it work. Life is for living. I have not always succeeded in all I do, but never for a lack of trying. I will try this ride out and see where it goes. Risks are good entertainment. And so, here I go like the fool off the cliff... The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Happy Friday!Dear fledglings,
Believe it or not, we only have one thing to say right now: This weekend, be a happy hedgehog! Life is short—especially for a small animal like a hedgehog—so you might as well live it up. You know what we mean, too. Cross everything off your reading list before it's too late. Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Not the town of berry mutants—and see this soprano!By Misty Thomas QuailBellMagazine.com The Barns of Rose Hill are located in Berryville, Virginia—the seat of Clarke County, one of the smallest counties in the state—and this spot is quite a popular performing arts venue. What makes it a little offbeat? The venue's made up of two dairy barns donated to the Town of Berryville in 1964. Since 2004, the mission of the venue has been to create a space that celebrates life, the arts, and culture—all good things indeed. The venue not only enhances the quality of life for the community of Berryville, but also the lives of its visitors. The owners of the venue hope that the events held here will educate the visitors and patrons in meaningful ways. On November 30th, the Barnes of Rose Hill welcomes soprano Mariana Mihai-Zoete in her performance of "Lucky 13," where she'll sing pieces from 1613, 1713, 1813, and 1913 A full and complete list of the events at the Barns can be found on BarnsofRoseHill.org. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Jack + MorbidityBy The Picture Pharmacist QuailBellMagazine.com Dear fledglings, Hey, whaddya know? It's the anniversary of JFK's assassination, in case you haven't listened to the radio, watched TV, or looked on the Internet for the past two months. Why don't you download this pic of the 35th president, pop it into Photoshop, commemorate (or even depict) his death in some way? A caisson, X's in his eyes, a halo over his head, Jackie crying in the background—take your pick and write a poem. Then do something with it. Just don't ask me what. Although if you really have to ask, I'd say make a Day of the Dead shrine and leave a little offering to Jack. That is all. Yours truly, The Picture Pharmacist
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An Obvious Progression I can remember it as though it were just a few months ago. There I was in Richmond, Virginia's Canal Club getting ready to screen my first film to over 200 people at the now legendary program known as Flicker in 2003. I had been encouraged by Flicker host James Parrish to shoot a short film.
I had been a photographer since the 80's, but not until then did I ever think of tackling the concept of the “moving image." I had edited together a short film that ran nearly nine minutes long. Shot on good old-fashioned Super 8 film on an old Kodak Instamatic M12 from 1967. It was an experiment. The results I got kind of bored me, so I decided to do an old exercise we used to do in first year photography class. This was manipulating the film emulsion with chemicals. My chemical of choice? Bleach water. I mixed some up in an empty bottle of hairspray. Then I stretched the Super 8 footage I had shot across a lightbox. I sprayed the bleach water on the emulsion side and watched the action happen. The images broke down within seconds. When I wanted to stop the process I simply wiped the film dry. Next, while the film was still wet, I stained the emulsion with iodine. I had no idea what the result was going to be but when I threaded that film into the projector to watch the results I was delightfully surprised. I saw the images that I had recorded and dismissed as boring take on a new life. The images were now gloriously deteriorated with an upside-down red rain effect going through them. All praise happy accidents. That film I titled, Emotional Juxtaposition. The night of the screening, I was petrified and sweating bullets until I heard the applause. People approached me after the program wanting to know how I did it. I had found a new medium to express myself. That was ten years ago. I am now planning my ninth film. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Other People's StoriesSeveral months and some significant life changes later, I find myself not in Washington, D.C. but here in New York City, a student again. I am in the Oral History Masters Program at Columbia University and as I move through my studies and learn what it means to work with other people’s stories, I face an ever-growing list of questions:
• Is telling one’s story, recounting memories, always a therapeutic healing process? Or is it sometimes a sacrifice on the part of the narrator? • What damage may you inflict on someone by asking them to share their story? • When dealing with people who have lived through traumatic experiences, what is their responsibility to their communities in regards to sharing those experiences? • What about the people who just want to forget? • As a new friend of mine put it, is “memory” a thing of privilege? When you struggle for your daily existence, is there room to reflect on the significance of political memory? In the discipline of oral history, an underlying assumption is the implicit value of telling your story to a receptive listener. This is why I got into oral history, why many of us are here. I believe in stories, I believe in the power of constructing a narrative about yourself and community as a way of making meaning. However, I am taking a few classes outside of my program that call into question some of the fundamentals of oral history practice. In a seminar on trauma and witnessing, we discuss whether one can ever truly convey and narrativize trauma. To what degree is trauma untellable, and to what degree must one push past that in order to benefit the collective? In a class based in social science methodology we have debated the idea of autonomy and control granted to narrators (interviewees) in oral history. Why would we share our interpretation of a narrative with its narrator? What if they don’t agree with our analysis? This tension in particular really grabs me. Are we so accustomed to exploitative models of research that the idea of seeing your “informants” or “narrators” as co-collaborators, or even part of your audience seems absurd? Recently Audrey Petty, editor and director of the oral history project/book High Rise Stories from Voice of Witness came to Columbia to speak about her work. When she was asked about who she wrote the book for, her response struck me: “My narrators.” Originally she had thought her audience would be people like her, people in Chicago who knew of and lived around high rise housing projects, but didn’t really know or understand the lives of those inside them. Yet, as she got deeper into the project, she shifted gears and she instead produced a book that her narrators could see themselves in, that was true to their experiences and their stories. It struck me as both beautiful and radical. Perhaps the difference can be attributed to the literary goals of her project, versus the academic goals of research. I’m not totally convinced. I remain hopeful that working through these tensions, along with the informed practice of oral history can break the modes that we conventionally use to tell other people’s stories. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Different ShotBy QB Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com In some ways, Baltimore's Federal Hill is like D.C.'s Capitol Hill. Stand there and you witness the essence of the city, or at least its contrived essence. Stand there and you will see the city how it wants to be seen. Federal and Capitol Hills are also similar in the sense that you tend them photographed the same way over and over again. Photos of Federal Hill usually depict the view of Baltimore's harbor, while photos of Capitol Hill usually show, well, the U.S. Capitol. So here's a different angle of Federal Hill, maybe one you haven't see pictured before, at least not recently. Can you spot the American Visionary Art Museum? Or even the Domino Sugar sign?
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An Anthropological Approach to ArtBy Eva Rocha QuailBellMagazine.com I grew up in a small town of only three streets in a rural area in the south of Brazil. My country is a place where many traditions from many kinds of people—free immigrants or groups brought by force—not just survived but merged, forming new traditions specific to Brazil. Many of these cross cultural traditions took place in my town, for example the Folia de Reis, a Catholic/pagan celebration for the Three Kings, was a group dressed up with masks and ragged textiles that would go door to door asking for food for the Kings’ party and, honestly, it would scare me to death.
I grew up fascinated by these popular festivities and helped with many of them. Later, I moved to Sao Paulo where I worked as a professional actress, a performance artist, an art educator, and a trapeze artist in a circus created by the government to keep homeless children out of streets. I worked with folklore dance groups, carnival blocos, and, years later, in the Andes of Peru, directed and created costumes for a few plays. The fact is that, in all circumstances, I was always aware of the anthropological aspect of the places I lived, and the groups with which I worked, and paid much attention to the cultural interactions and art created from that. I once met Eugenio Barba—the Italian founder of the International School of Theatre Anthropology. His theories greatly impacted me, and I ended up studying anthropology and art at VCU when I came to the U.S. The ties between art and anthropology captivate me. I like the rituals that are inherent in that kind of art; it has a condensed truth to it. I admire that art that comes from popular roots, that is impregnated with the place’s collective unconsciousness, and search to incorporate that in most of my creations. I include and contrast that art with many parts of my own experience. I refer to my installations as ‘memorial fragments’ and think of myself as a kind of Visual Anthropology Artist. Peter Brooke of London, another theater philosopher, once said “the destiny of theater is to the future in the direction of Shakespeare.” For me, the direction of the arts is to the future in the direction of primal art. And I use primal in the sense of prime, first, essential. I see a great importance in preserving this sort of art. Since I co-founded the Virginia Center for Latin American Art, a non-profit to raise awareness of Latin American/Latino issues through art, I try to incorporate some of these traditions from my childhood to cultivate awareness of the richness of such ‘popular’ art. Unfortunately, the term ‘popular’ has become a pejorative classification in contrast to academically learned art. As a means of raising awareness, I ended up creating six twelve-foot-tall puppets in a traditional style: two Brazilian natives for the “Latin American Day: Brazil” event at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts; a Pacha Mama Earth Mother for Earth Day for Enrichmond Foundation; a Frida Kahlo for the CultureWorks Xpo; and two Chancay puppets that I scaled up from the Chancay dolls in the VMFA Pre-Colombian Collection for their “Latin American Day: Peru.” These last two where challenging because I embroidered their clothes to recreate the symbols, signs and patterns originally woven in the Chancay Culture of Peru. I like to scale things. I like that strange impact that an otherwise common object can cause due to its size. By scaling something like the Chancay dolls, I also call attention to the complexity of their art: the anthropological component which was underestimated in our society, where the ritualistic and human element end up being discharged to give place to the art created by the cult of personality, the overvalued diplomas and academic degrees and, especially, the linguistic construct—the worldly artist statement that justifies a piece of art. I believe art needs no justification other than that which comes from its own strength. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Spirit Photos of William MumlerHave you ever seen a horror movie where someone holds a seance in a haunted house? Have you ever played with a Ouija board? If you answered yes to at least one of these questions, then you have some idea of what Spiritualism is. Started in upstate New York in 1848 by sisters Kate and Margaret Fox, Spiritualism claims that the spirits of the departed communicate with the living to give advice and inspiration. Certain people, called mediums, are more attuned to the spirit world and can communicate easily with the departed. For those of us not so gifted, the spirits are more likely to manifest as rapping sounds, movements on a Ouija board, and suddenly extinguished candles. In the 1860's, Spiritualism swept across the United States like a ghostly wildfire. Hundreds of thousands had been killed in the Civil War, and Americans longed to hear that death was not the end. Spiritualism filled an aching need in the country's heart. One problem with Spiritualism, though, was that it was so ephemeral. Rapping noises and messages delivered through an entranced medium were nice, but wouldn't it be better to have concrete proof that your deceased loved one was still with you? William Mumler, a Boston jeweler, was able to provide that proof. He could give you a photo. There was of course a price. Customers would pay $10 for a dozen photos, a high price for the time, and with no guarantee the spirits would appear. Sometimes they didn't, but when they did the results were pretty spectacular. Look at this photo: Mumler's customers were generally satisfied with the results, even if the spirits in the photos didn't exactly look like their relatives. The veil between the worlds was hazy, and the spirits themselves were perfected and changed in the Summerland where they dwelt on the other side. No wonder they looked a little vague when captured on film. Skeptical Bostonians argued that Mumler's photos were faked. Was it merely coincidence, they said, that the spirits photographed were usually the same ones that customers had told Mrs. Mumler about while in the studio's waiting room? Local pundit Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote a pointed essay about how easy it was double-expose film, but faithful Spiritualists ignored the criticism and continued to patronize Mumler. That is, until they began to notice that the spirits in the photos looked suspiciously like people still living in Boston. Feeling the heat, Mumler fled Boston for New York and set up a new studio. Things seemed to be going well in the new state until he was arrested and put on trial for fraud. Amazingly, he was found not guilty. A string of professional photographers testified they had watched him in the studio and saw no trickery. Many of satisfied customers also took the stand, claiming the spirits in their photos were indeed their dearly departed. If his customers were happy, the defense lawyers said, how could there be fraud? Mumler returned to Boston after being released, and despite a tarnished reputation set up a small studio at his mother's house in the South End. A small trickle of clients continued to patronize him, including one woman dressed in black who refused to lift her veil until the camera was ready. She had been tricked before and didn't want to be tricked again. She wanted Mumler to prove he was the real thing. Mumler produced the following photo for her: The woman was Mary Todd Lincoln, Abraham Lincoln's widow. I think you can guess who the spirit is. This is probably the last photo taken of Mrs. Lincoln before her death in 1882.
Mumler himself died in 1884. Shortly before passing away, he burned all his negatives. You can find a lot more about William Mumler on the web. In particular I found this essay to be very informative. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Rainbow ChurchesBy The Quail Bell Crew QuailBellMagazine.com Let's see more of this kind of acceptance at churches in D.C., Maryland, and Virginia.
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For the Pink Shorts CrowdBy Sorcha Patricks QuailBellMagazine.com Ever been teased for your blatant preppiness? Ever had to explain why you bought five-dollar bright green hair ribbons? Ever had someone notice your New Balance sneakers and salmon shorts and scoff, “You look like a ninety year old man on a golf course?” If so, then Charlottesville, Virginia is the place for you! Welcome, fellow preps, as I guide you through the town you’ll come to love.
We begin first at the University of Virginia, our mother ship. Our campus was founded in 1819 by Thomas Jefferson. Since the brick buildings look as homogenous as we do, it’s easy to get a little turned around. Here we have the Lawn, on which perfect people with gleaming white teeth play Frisbee. And over here we have the—wait a minute, wrong building—either our student dorm or the mathematics building. I really don’t know which one! Did I mention we were founded by Thomas Jefferson? Academics are a major focus of all UVA students. We have an Honor Code that we feel very strongly about, except when it comes to buying term papers. When we’re not studying, we enjoy supporting our school sports team. Make sure to visit a UVA football game during your stay! Though the team hasn't won in years, main attractions include the puking undergraduates and the highest amount of polo shirts per capita of anywhere in the world. Of course, we don’t just study and watch football—we enjoy our recreation off campus, too. The school’s motto, “Work hard, party hard,” leads to raucous nights on the Corner, UVA’s student hub, where drunk nineteen-year-olds desperately show fake IDs to weary bouncers and cry in alleyways when their boyfriends don’t show them enough attention. Charlottesville’s expensive Downtown Mall is another hot spot for nightlife: any Friday or Saturday you can hear students in pearls and popped collars say “Have you seen Molly?” or “I have my dad’s card. Let’s get some drinks.” That’s not all Charlottesville has to offer. On the city's southwest corner we have the historically black neighborhood, but you wouldn't want to visit it because, well, it's full of black people! There’s also Pantops, but it’s just a little too...well you know...sketchy? For shopping, go to Barracks Mall, where you can find a monogrammed Lilly iPad case marked down to only two hundred dollars. Great deal, you know? I paid three hundred dollars for mine down in Charleston. So if you have money, connections, Grandma’s pearls, and a wish not to talk to others “below” you, Charlottesville is your town! Visit today! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Lady of the DayBy Alexander C. Kafka QuailBellMagazine.com Defying stereotypes, genre niches, and commercial easy-outs, Stacie Passon’s Concussion is a quietly intense character study about aging, eros, and expectations. It’s sexy but not exploitative, sensual but not manipulatively explicit, and paced in a way that taffies out the fear, the awkwardness, and the excitement of its characters’ lovemaking.
Abby (Robin Weigert) is perched between universes. There’s the progressive world where no one blinks at her marriage to another woman, their parenting of two children, and her working as a contractor flipping beat-up loft spaces into airy condos. But then there are the dreary duties of housewife—cleaning, throwing dinner parties, and picking up the kids from school. She might feel more her own woman if her lawyer wife Kate (Julie Fain Lawrence) were more into her sexually. But Abby, a fitness nut who runs, spins, and does yoga to her limits, clearly isn’t getting the physical and romantic stimulation she craves. The titular concussion, involving an unfortunate confluence of child, parent, and errant ball, is as much a thematic device as it is a plot element. It frames a shift in Abby’s consciousness, a sudden quiet defiance against society’s need to normalize and neutralize the midlife libido. After an uncomfortable appointment with an unkempt prostitute, followed by a more fulfilling assignation with a tidier pro, Abby finds herself, through her colleague Justin (Jonathan Tchaikovsky), becoming a Lady of the Day herself, entertaining clients from college age up in a downtown space she’s fixed up but not yet sold. Such a development should strain credibility, and in lesser hands it would. But Passon conveys the shift in Abby’s life with a nuance and gradation that somehow make it work. Part of Passon’s finesse involves surrounding Abby with a quirky range of clients, from a college student who wants to shed her virginity and her weight to a skittish seasoned woman recovering from a too-considerate, overly civilized husband. One client’s a little too aggressive and another alarmingly familiar from the school carpool line, but the film never lets its uneasy developments slide into B-grade late-night thriller riffs. It eludes, and sends up, genre traditions even in the character of Abby’s pimp (an amusing Emily Kinney). Known simply as “the girl,” she is a stressed, precocious, meticulous pre-law student whose entrepreneurial instincts are anarchically combined with undergraduate tactlessness. But most of all the film is made real to us through Weigert. As the tense, conflicted, brave, and empathetic Abby, she seductively, slyly, but shyly persuades us that her strange journey is necessary. Lawrence’s Kate is delicately, classically beautiful, but frosty, too. And Maggie Siff as Sam, the client and fellow PTA mom, is an intriguing intertwining of vamp and vulnerability. David Kruta’s light-filled cinematography; the murmurs of Barb Morrison’s anxious and seeking musical score; and Anthony Cupo’s smart, patient editing all enhance the picture’s taut atmosphere. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Not Smoke and Mirrors--Skulls and MirrorsBy Sidney Shuman QuailBellMagazine.com Here are three imaginary, nostalgic, and otherworldly fashion trends the mainstream retail world snatched from the now diseased but forever remembered designer, Alexander McQueen: 1. Skull Accessories: All of the scarves, rings, hats, gloves, and dresses that you see with skulls scattered about are inspired by the late Alexander McQueen’s dark aesthetic. He not only created a dark, romantic image for his couture designs, but designed scarves for mainstream fashion. 2. Mirrored prints: This trend has been spotted in many designers’ collections and has now trickled down to mainstream stores such as Target, H&M, and Forever 21. The first to do it, however, was McQueen. Many of his mirrored prints were shown in the Savage Beauty at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2011 and have inspired many designers since. 3. Victorian and military inspired jackets:
Meshing the structure of a military jacket with that of a Victorian corset brings about beautiful fashion that was first displayed in couture by McQueen and has trickled into mainstream fashion to be worn with anything from a well-made dress to denim shorts. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Taking the RVA Stage Richmond, Virginia's theater scene is, in typical Richmond fashion, loyal and rich in history. It also has “the strongest, most vibrant theatre scene of any mid-size metro area in the nation, with seven professionally oriented nonprofit companies currently competing for audiences, funding and media coverage,” says Bruce Miller, artistic director of Virginia Repertory Theatre. Monumental Church, once Richmond Theatre “If there’s a trend underway, it’s consolidation,” Miller continues, explaining that only a couple of years ago, there were ten competing companies. However, Barksdale Theatre and Theatre IV merged to form Virginia Rep in 2012, while Henley Street Theatre and Richmond Shakespeare announced their planned merger earlier this year. Sycamore Rouge, meanwhile, closed last summer after battling financial hardship. Miller adds, “Hopefully, more consolidation will occur soon. Considering the limits of our community’s resources, a strong case can be made that fewer appropriately funded companies would yield higher returns than seven companies, all of which are undercapitalized.” One of the city’s most notable theaters no longer exists, but remains a vital part of the capital’s long and varied story of performance art. Once upon a time, that stage was Richmond Theatre, a “barn-like building,” which fell to a fatal fire during its final performance in 1811. At the time, casual theatre-goers and esteemed critics alike considered Richmond Theatre one of the finest stages in the country. Today Monumental Church, surrounded by the Medical College of Virginia campus on Broad Street, serves as a mausoleum for all who lost their lives to flame. Yet as interesting as this tale may be, you’re probably more curious about the stage fare you can enjoy today. It does, after all, range from “burlesque to Broadway,” in the words of Cindy Creasy, who runs BroadwayInRichmond.com. “The theatre scene here is a gem, something many Richmonders take for granted, but we're so lucky with all of the performing arts happening here.” Want to relish Richmond's theatre scene? Here are some of the plays hitting Richmond this winter (don't worry—we've spared you from all the Christmas pageants): The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Rum and RemorseBy Christopher Sloce QuailBellMagazine.com “Every really good horse is a freak.” - Buster Welch A pin-point moment for the family unit: your son came home after begging the night before to go to a Halloween party after party. He is dressed like Conan O’Brien, wearing a god awful tie, hair dyed red. He walked inside, his brow furrowed, focused on getting to his bedroom with no questions. You know he is hating himself for what happened last night.
There was a girl at the Halloween party, plastered and holding walls, dressed like Alice. The after-party hosts tossed marshmallows at her, and he pitied her, but not enough to stand up. Instead of tossing marshmallows at her, he said he’d take the blame for it, hold the bag and eat them while she turns around to ask, “Who the fuck is throwing marshmallows at me?” Your son stood there as she slapped his stomach, hot feelings left there as she ran off, leaving him to shout, “What the fuck was that?” like a punchline. There was another girl there. He sold out. The night before, he groveled so much, wanting to be cool, wanting to hop in the back of the truck, put his Wal-Mart suit jacket’s lapels up to his ears, ride through the near freezing air, sing in the truck bed, go and hang out with his best friends. He saw the full bar, and drinks being poured. He turned down all offers, and somebody made a fire. In the circle he had nothing to say until he asked everybody what their favorite horror movie is. When somebody couldn’t finish his Busch light, he took it and didn’t enjoy it. Later someone offered him a sip of rum, which he did enjoy. Somebody at this party brought up the girl they tossed marshmallows at. He says what boys say, he is in the world of perceived men. The party turns into hypotheticals. Somebody asks what they’d sell their soul for. Ever the Baptist schoolboy, he said, he wouldn’t, but he’d imagine if he did, there’d only be a few things he would do it for, because if he ever considered it, he’d slid far down and mores meant nothing. The point remained that it would never happen. Your raising wasn’t useless. He slept on the floor, he woke up in the morning, face imprinted in the small reeds of carpet, still wearing the suit. He went outside and got in somebody’s car, hoping for no mentions of last night. For all of your son’s failings, he is at least honest. If you ask what happens, he will tell the truth, because he expects the classic answer: Be careful if you do it, don’t do too much, because there also a running gag slash threat that you will get him so sick off of liquor that he will never drink again. He believed it to be kosher. When he hopped in the car, they say, “I’m glad we still have rum left.” So when he walks in the house the next day, you know something is amiss. You ask, “Did you drink anything last night?” And he panics and answers as boys do. You continued to press him. He collapsed and threw up qualifiers. The disappointment in the room was stifling. He went to his room and thinks about what he did wrong. For him, it was the beginning of a long slide, the opening shot of his coming of age movie, him watching red hair dye fall out of his pompadour in the shower, pooling at his feet like an obvious metaphor washing off him and ending depending on whom he is lying to that day. The second act started when he blew off putting up that Christmas tree everybody hated to hang out with his friends. At least that night he stayed sober, but he came home with a broken camera. What your son does not know or will never know is what you two said once he went off to his room and chastised himself: he never argued that alcohol was bad but if this is what it causes, then it must be. There is only the possibility you two sat and spoke about it, and there was disappointment and resignation; acceptance that he was growing up and his remorse was obvious. In the other room, a 6-year-old is in her own world. Maybe it occurred to you both that one day in ten years, she might be hiding in her room. But your son wants her to be happy but hopes her desire to set herself apart from the crowd and to approach whatever she does has no body count. In the spirit of Buster Welch’s quote, he attempted to prove how good of a horse he was and in the process injured too many ranch-hands. What you saw as teenage rebellion in all honesty had a philosophical approach, and that is where this memory diverges. Your son found himself scared of bourgeois life and thought the only way to escape a life where he would be miserable and trapped instead of just miserable but free was a raging against Thomas’s dying light, if death and office jobs were comparable. Your son read too much Henry Miller. Your son had friends and he lost them all, the fracture starting when he jumped in the back of the Jeep and attempted to throttle his friend who made a drunken and innocuous comment about his girlfriend, and making itself truly clear when he rejected a handshake from the deadbeat ex of the girl who just three years prior he pretended to toss marshmallows at. In your son’s quest for “enlightenment,” he proved how unenlightened he really was. You two didn’t see that his actions had unconscious motivations. And that’s the cruel thing about memory: your son could have, at any point, sat down, been honest, and said what he felt but he never did. Instead, he dragged his family along for a yearlong course in solipsistic depression and pity parties; the number one impetus of the literature high school males love the most. And your son is sorry. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Art Not Meant for the Gutter But the ToiletBy QB History Buff QuailBellMagazine.com More than one person in this universe has a magazine rack or stack of newspapers or even books in their bathroom at home. But when your bowel movements are frustrating you in a public restroom and you know you'll be sitting for a while, you might not get so lucky with having available reading material. Unless, of course, you're sitting on a throne at The Mariners' Museum in Newport News, Virginia.
"A Head of Its Time," a new exhibition that opened on November 8th, features pirate cartoons by local artist Walt Taylor. Priscilla Hauger, Director of Exhibitions was influenced by the drawings of British artist David Antram, the illustrator of the children's book series, You Wouldn't Want to..., which teaches kids about the inconveniences of everyday living in other time periods. Taylor, the political cartoonist for The Virginian-Pilot has collaborated with the museum and historians to make comics all about the olden days of seamen and how they made do with limited resources. Ever wonder what seamen did with no toilet paper on hand? The comics teaches you just how they wiped their booties. You can even wipe your own booty while reading these panels. After all, "A Head of Its Time" is posted on the restroom walls, over urinals, and yes, on stall doors. This exhibition might be a good distraction from thinking of how you need more fiber in your diet. And who doesn't like tales of the sea? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Autumn SweaterBy Eden Haney QuailBellMagazine.com Old Town Alexandria's Waterfront Park has captured the imagination of many Washingtonians. It beckons you with its sparkling marina and sweet, eclectic shops and restaurants for neighbors. And maybe because it's older than most of the District or maybe because it's on the Virginia side of the Potomac, everything there moves just a little slower, though still at Northern Virginia's head-swirling pace. Eden Haney put together this casual, thrifted look by stealing a cue from the Plus Size department. Just because you're not a 2XL doesn't mean you can't wear a 2XL sweater. Big means comfy and, in this case, elegant. -CS We could slip away Wouldn't that be better? Me with nothing to say and you in your autumn sweater -Yo La Tengo
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Blond Gypsy AngelsLike Maria, the blonde Gypsy girl recently thought to have been kidnapped by a Gypsy couple in Greece, my Gypsy grandmother was a blond angel. She hid in plain sight in Germany during World War II, passing as a German girl with the lightest olive skin, clear gray eyes, and golden curls. She went to school, and like nearly every other German child she was automatically enrolled in Hitler Youth. She appeared to be the perfect Aryan specimen, but in reality, my grandmother’s family is Sinti, a sub-group of the Romani people, the ethnic group frequently and inaccurately referred to as “Gypsies.” The Nazis hunted Romani alongside the Jewish people, political and religious dissenters, gays and transsexuals, the disabled, the mentally ill, and other “undesirables.” Even though half of Europe’s Romani population was wiped out, that’s an estimated one to two million (though probably more) Romani men, women, and children murdered. Romani Holocaust victims are still barely acknowledged, often forgotten, or denied entirely. Romani writer, linguist, and Romani Studies professor, Dr. Ian Hancock, addresses the history and politics of Romani Holocaust victims and survivors in his writings, such as “Downplaying the Porrajmos: The Trend to Minimize the Romani Holocaust” and “Jewish Responses to the Porrajmos (The Romani Holocaust).” It was not a safe time or place to be a Romani person at all, but my grandmother survived through happenstance. She lived in a very rural part of Germany, her mother had remarried a gadjo (non-Romani) farmer, and through a series of channels her family was lucky enough to obtain German documentation. As a family, they were able to “pass” as members of the so-called master race, as long as they were willing to sacrifice large parts of their culture. It wasn’t an easy thing to pull off: my grandmother and her siblings are the first generation of her family not to speak the Sinti dialect of Rromanes, the Romani language. It wasn’t safe for her to know it when at any time officers could and did burst into her home and tear through their possessions, looking for any evidence that they were not who they said they were. The first time officers paid a visit, she was five years old and so terrified that only after the officers left did she realize she had wet herself. She recalls diving into the ditch every time a car passed her on the road just in case someone was suspicious of her. She lived her life in constant fear of being discovered. It’s difficult to say exactly what grace brought her through the war when so many others were taken, but I’m sure it had a lot to do with those clear-gray eyes and that “angel” blond hair that we’ve been hearing so much about. It was her recessive-gene ticket to safety.
It was Maria’s ticket, too, had she been a victim at all when the police came barging into her home in Larissa, Greece. According to CNN’s Eva Cosse, “Maria was picked up by police during a sweep operation of the Roma settlement in Farsala, part of a broader police operation across Greece involving unlawful and discriminatory ethnic profiling.” They saw a blond angel in the Romani settlement and assumed she must have been kidnapped by the Gypsies. After all, who hasn’t heard that old racist cliché? If that’s anything to go by, Gypsies are never but stealing children! The problem is that without any real evidence, Christos Salis and Eleftheria Dimopoulou, Maria’s guardians, were charged with abduction and Maria was taken by the police for DNA testing. While Salis and Dimopoulou and the rest of the world were waiting for the DNA test results, the media and Internet commenters went wild, slinging accusations of child trafficking, abuse, and a slew of nefarious intentions, as well as enormous doses of antigypsyism and hate-speech: Gypsies are dirty criminals. Gypsies are animals. All Gypsies should be killed. Once I met a Gypsy in France so I know for a fact that they are all terrible. Blah blah blah. It left me, and quite a few others, shaking with rage and disappointment in humanity, but it also left us wondering, If it really looks so bad for poor Maria, if there really is reason to suspect human trafficking, then why was only the “white” child removed? What about the Romani kids? And while we waited to hear the rest of the story, hysterical prejudice whiplashed across Europe: two fair children in Ireland were removed by the police from their Romani families to be DNA tested. Their darker parents were accused of child abduction. According to Carl O’Brien of The Irish Times, the mess in Ireland all started because of a Facebook post to TV3’s Paul Connolly Investigates Facebook page. The anonymous poster reported seeing the Maria case on television and noticing that “there is also a little girl living in a Roma house in Tallaght and she is blond and blue eyes [sic]…I am from Tallaght myself and it is a big problem [sic] there are missing kids.” Paul Connolly passed on this message the police. That apparently was enough to indulge in grotesque racial profiling and remove that child from home. Then there was another allegation about a fair child in Dublin, and that child was also removed, despite the fact that the parents produced the child’s birth certificate and passport. Instead, the police traumatized two families for no sound reason. The DNA tests revealed that the two Irish children are Romani. No surprise and a lot of shame on those officers. Henry McDonald reported for The Guardian that Martin Collins, of the lobby group Pavee Point Traveller and Roma Centre, called the police officers’ actions "abductions." Collins added: "We are extremely concerned and worried about these developments. We hope it is not the beginning of some sort of pattern where children of Roma parents who are not dark-skinned and have brown eyes are taken away one after the other for DNA test after DNA test." This is especially disturbing since, as Hancock discusses in his book of essays Danger! Educated Gypsy, the UK and Europe have a history of removing Romani children from their parents and placing them in institutions because it was assumed that Romani parents were not capable of raising their own children. |
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