The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Underneath My project, “Underneath,” is an exploration of female identity and sexuality conveyed through literature and illustration on underwear. The medium and process include embroidery, illustration/handwritten text with fabric ink, cut fabric, and additional materials. Each pair can stand alone as a single object, or make a more powerful statement as an art piece as a complete set. The concepts meant to be interpreted from this work include women’s sexual oppression, undervalued sexual identities, and self-expression. The phrases on the patches are quotes that I find particularly impactful and relevant to gender/sexuality. Feminist authors, philosophers, and activists like Anne Koedt, Luce Irigaray, and Gayle Rubin are a few of the women whose words influenced me to create this body of work. Koedt’s "Myth of the Vaginal Orgasm" is a compelling essay that provides an argument as to why society downplays the importance of clitoral stimulation and encourages vaginal pleasure. Freud’s sexist theories along with his brutal, burdensome claims of female sexuality were also strong motivators for this work. I included his notions of penis envy and male sexual dominance to critique this perspective and contrast it with more liberating ideals. Though critiques of his assumptions are thoroughly included within Kate Millet’s Sexual Politics, Simone de Beauvoir’s The Feminine Mystique, as well as many other feminist works, I found it important to include a bit of Freud’s implications to educate and inform, as well as for creating clear direction and purpose for the work by opposing his claims. The most important things I hope people can take from “Underneath” is a better understanding of how a male-dominated society can and does directly influence female sexuality. The goal is liberation from sexual oppression, freedom of expression, equally obtainable gratification, and standards. #Unreal #Underneath #Underwear #Panties #Feminism #Feminist #Womanhood #Sexuality #Quotes #Embroidery Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Home for the Soul By Elizabeth S. Gilliam-Hedgepath Drippy Dreamscapes. When I was still in college and during the years shortly after I graduated, my work had all of the venom and statement-making intention I could muster. The paintings were heavy, metallic, intricate, and utilitarian. Then, one day a few years back, a painting emerged out of somewhere deep and lovely in my brain. It was a soft, blue, ethereal light and drippy thing. It begat a subtle transition into a desire for my paintings to impart peace and evoke nostalgia for a world only visited in dreams. I want to create images of things that feel familiar but that have never existed. I have always wanted that, but my work has grown with me and I now like to think of myself as a creator of surreal dreamscapes. I don’t even have a website yet, so it’s hard to think of myself as a real 21st century artist sometimes, but I suppose that is just my way of staying a bit more primitive, or maybe an excuse for being a bit too much inside my own head. Drippy, Oozy, Suspended Madness. I am crazy about science. If I didn’t have art rolling around in my head all day I like to think that I would have made a fine scientist. Because of this, the natural world and my fascination with the endlessness of space all show themselves in the pictures I create. I love exploring balance, suspension, and contrast within my work, as well as lightness both in terms of weight and illumination. We humans have such heavy, busy, wonderful, tragic, exciting, intricate, dichotomous lives. Everyone needs a happy peaceful place—a home for their soul. Physically I think mine is somewhere in the misty mountains of western North Carolina. Mentally, it is somewhere in the painted light blue, drippy, suspended oozy beautiful madness I have made on canvas. #Unreal #FeaturedArtist #Painters #Paintings #FantasticalArt #Nostalgia #Dreamy #ScientificInfluence #NorthCarolina Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Invasion of the Body Switchers A copy of Vogue was the only object on the dashboard; the creamy flesh of the cover model’s muffin top popping over the words “New Normcore Bodies.”
Doon brushed aside the magazine impatiently and blew her breath over the translucent security touch-screen menu until a stream of humming lights appeared. “Computer,” she whispered, a disembodied voice. “Activate communication line to B-Deck, Alpha Block, Delta Hall Reprocessing Room.” A screen flickered to life, revealing discarded human high fashion bodies twisted and piled in the refuse chamber, runway legs and high cheekbones jutting at random sharp angles under the glowing lights of the mass incinerators. Long lean torsos and toned triceps sagged, lifeless. The only movement came from a piece of machinery that dumped the last of the human rejects into a heap before screeching to a halt. “Report, Lieutenant,” commanded Doon. “What is your status? Your standing orders are to commence incineration for fuel boost as soon as possible.” Feedback crackled through the speakers as Lieutenant Orr shifted the currant of his energy from the machine to the speaker system. “What a waste,” grunted Orr to the intercom. “This carnage. All that work down the tubes, all that perfectly healthy terrestrial fauna destroyed.” Doon’s voice crackled. “I asked for status, Lieutenant, not commentary.” Orr growled. “None of these subjects survived trials. If we attempt Switching now, we could instigate extinction in the native populations and dissipation of our selves! This is lunacy.” Doon’s eyes flickered. “The Normcore subjects will provide a softer landing.” She surveyed the discarded supermodel bodies dismissively. “We’ve manipulated their Fashion system to idealize body characteristics most likely to support the Switch. Those that perished in trials, we’ll burn as fuel for the Switch. It’s a very efficient plan, Lieutenant.” Doon blew her breath across her copy of Vogue, turning its pages for display over the screen. Headlines trumped the arrival of the “new” body, the switching trend from elite, frenetic fitness to Normcore—Normcore, the ideal body type for Switching. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Apple Tinsel The tinsel in the apple trees asked me to fall in love. Perhaps, it was just you were the nearest for that stabbing arrow in my eye to shift my weight into your lap and believe it is with you I am love. Perhaps, it was the tether moon gleaming in the tinsel with the ripe apple smell to unhinge an ambit of love. Perhaps, when I sleep, and you are in the scene but you have always been me I ask a different question about love. Stitch patches of water onto my body, entice the landscape with what I know of enraptured cupids, unnerved fate, sweet apple meat and half-moon imprints, of my mother and father of a love. Blooming a ginger flower, the green ginger root wrapped in plastic is trying to do what it has always done before. I put the ginger flower in my mouth and let orchards bloom inside me. Sheila McMullin curates the feminist and artist resource website, MoonSpit Poetry, where a list of her publications can also be found. She is the Website Assistant for VIDA: Women in Literary Arts where she writes the column “Spotlight On!” celebrating literary magazines that publish a diverse representation of writers. She is a Contributing Editor for ROAR Magazine. Her poetry collection, Like Water, has received notable attention from Ahsahta Press, New Delta Review, and Black Lawrence Press chapbook competitions. She works as an after-school creative writing and college prep instructor, and volunteers at her local animal rescue. She holds her M.F.A. from George Mason University. #Unreal #Poem #SheilaMcMillan#Imagary#Flora#Love#Apple#Sensuality Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Labor Day By Patrick Michael Clark QuailBellMagazine.com There were three bedrooms in our house on Front Street. Our parents had one with a double closet and the baby Nickolas had the small one in the back. My brother Don and I shared the last room and it was always a sorry state because Don’s side was always a mess, but I didn’t mind because he was good about paying me five cents to use the safe I had under my bedpost.
It was just a loose board that you could pull up and hide whatever you wanted underneath. I rarely used it but Don would always rent it if he needed to hide gum or cigarettes. An extra nickel always came in handy. But the best part about the room was that it was closest to the back stairs that led down to the kitchen and out the side yard. There wasn’t a lot to stop you from skipping out late, as long as you didn’t wake the baby Nickolas or get caught by Margret Little from across the street sitting on her porch drinking gin. It was getting to be the end of the summer of 1931, I was almost nine years old, and we were about to go back to the Monongahela Central School. It was the last week of vacation and Don had woken me up in the middle of the night. Not completely strange, but it was a lot later than usual. “Ann, I need you to open the safe.” I tried to ignore him but he shook me hard on the shoulder. “Come on, I gotta get in.” Grudgingly I got up and I told him to help me push the bed over so I could get to the hiding place. In a flash he had pulled a small paper bag from the safe, set it on his bed, and was rummaging through the closet. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “I got business up on the Hill,” he replied taking his BB gun out of the closet and slinging it over his shoulder. “This late? What’s going on?” He had started putting on his shoes. “Nothing a girl needs to know.” At this I grabbed the bag and dumped it out on the nightstand. It was full of matchbooks and ten-cent fireworks. Don got up and started grabbing the loot. |