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Posts Tagged ‘ladies’

Gender-upending multimedia outfit BARBARISM is steppin’ out, turnin’ heads!

newbarbs

We have an exhibition at Fleisher Arts Memorial Dec 6-Jan 31 (reception is Dec 6; come one, come all!).

We’ve been doing some presentations at The Plastic Club, Womynsfest, Permanent Wave Philly at Eris Temple Arts ; we’ve been published on Certain Circuits and The Qouch : The Queer Psychoanalysis Society. We’ve been collaborating with Never Forget Radio.

We made some Vines.

We’ve also belatedly entered the Internet age! We now have these cool new Tumblr, Twitter and Facebook apparatuses.

Follow, tweet, tumble upon us!  (we long to be tumbled)

BARBARISM

Sarah + Rebecca

 

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Womanhood, in a dozen free associated phrases or less: lipstick, sports bras, skin tone underwear, wilfulness, not daintiness, porcelain, pathos, pelvic thrusts, clitoridectomies, humiliation, limitation, a Hasid who becomes a matador. Sarah and I are starting a movement. A womanly movement.

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“Optimism really has no place in psychotherapy,” said the woman on the podium that temperate October night. Over the wails of a particularly ponderous, pedantic old eristic, she gently continued with a saucy touch of arch, “What I’m trying to say here is it looks worse than it is.”

I like psychoanalysis and I like ladies so it makes sense that my views on optimism and realism are, to my wish-fulfilling mind, aligned with my idols.

I’ve been dogged by deeply depressed optimism-pushers all my days. They weren’t all the same. One was a manic, ecstatically passive-aggressive fireball. Another was blinded by an intoxicating cloud of mushy fakery; he couldn’t see or understand anything outside himself, drugged as he was in order to function. Another worked well with me when the conversation was superficial. I think I reminded him too much of himself. ‘Optimism’ under the auspices of the mostly males who have presented it to me has always seemed a needy, desperate, flimsy, candy-coated levee holding back an endless, restless torrent of hatred in all points directed.

And I like my hatred in the open. I don’t want to cap it so it explodes. In my experience of the world, acknowledging pain dissolves pain. Realism not negativism is the name of my prospective game. Realism heartens, optimism obfuscates. Optimism is fake. Realism is optimism.

There’s something so beautiful about staring into the vortex of sorrow, the disconsolate, destitute keening of despair! and accepting it and being humbled by it and made stronger by it, and kinder by it and that, if nothing else, is the goal on the eve of my four-and-twentieth year, notwithstanding erotic freedom.

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