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Just another night on the internet. Reading and watching video,.... Jazz is addicted to growing her fingernails x Gwendolyn Brooks "Boy Breaking Glass" #ThingsRemembered
For a few years, articles have been circulating on the well-preserved hair and hair extensions of women at Armana burial excavation in Egypt. No shocker that 2000 years ago the women wore hair extensions-- braids, weaves, and wigs!-- but what I was concerned about is that there is a Material Culture team that presents the findings on pottery, plaster, leatherwork, etc., but that team is missing a key member, a WEAVEOLOGIST!!! An expert who knows extensions in and out! With my light digging, I struggled to find an African person on the archaeology team at this site. Jolanda Bos is the human hair specialist and I hope that she has a great black weaveologist on retainer. Links to her latest findings here - http://www.livescience.com/47875-ancient-egyptian-woman-with-hair-extensions.html
Sometimes you're listening to MLK and Christmas Piano Solos at the same time and you get a perfect #HotepHolidays #TwitterDeep moment. Happy Hotep Holidays y'all! #HowToWasteTimeOnTheInternet
Just stumbled upon this Mark Bradford sculpture from 2002. Pretty sure I created a similar exercise in my studio in 2012. Didn't know it was out there. I love finding things like this. More more more, please! Also, Mark Bradford and his work are delightful / fierce. A good combo.
After sculptures made from fingernails, devoré rubbed/scratched away velvet, and scratch-off screenprints, linoleum cut prints make sense. There's a scratching and removal process that links these mediums. Today, I am teaching my middle schoolers about Elizabeth Catlett's political, expressionistic art, and making some socially conscious themed greeting cards. Scratchin' n Survivin'! ....
scratch, from Merriam Webster:
1: to scrape or dig with the claws or nails
2: to rub and tear or mark the surface of with something sharp or jagged
3 a : to scrape or rub lightly (as to relieve itching)
b : to act on (a desire) —used with itch <scratch the itch to travel>
4: to scrape together : collect with difficulty or by effort <scratch out a living>
5: to write or draw on a surface
#Excoration #Scratching #Rubbing #Nails #PickyPicky
sidenote - I wonder if any (self-harm) cutters ever made relief prints of their arms cuts that'd been rolled in ink. #morbid
I usually find a self-serving positive spin to all scandals, wars, and tragedies that I cannot ignore. Either NIMBYOW (Not in my back yard? Oh well!) or some revelation that this can change my way of thinking about a particular person or thing. In the case of the recent rape allegations against Bill Cosby, I feel like I can happily destroy one of my childhood patriarchal idols. He, along with Michael Jackson, James Brown, Al Sharpton, Walt Clyde Frazier, and to a lesser extent, Prince, was one of those male figures that my parents felt safe leaving me with, even if it was virtually, through the television screen. He was vetted as one of the people that we should consider “good” and “on our side.” I had fantasies of living in a family like the Cosby’s. I’m sure many of us did. I’ve heard stories of little girls reenacting Rudy’s “Babaaaaaaaay” performance, and I still, randomly, will spout out lines by Justine (Theo’s girlfriend) to my friend Kimmy. When my dad moved from East Hampton to Brooklyn in the early 90s and was trying to make us feel more comfortable and safe with his move to the big city, he showed us how the brownstone he lived in was “like the one on the Cosby show, see, we’re in that part of Brooklyn.” Still I knew that our educated-but-working class lifestyle with a divorce so fresh in the rearview mirror was nothing like the Cosbys. But somehow, I always had a bit of hope that it could be.
Years later, when I attended Williams College, where there would be Cosby sightings occasionally when he was hanging with Morty, Williams’ then president, I had to go through an abandonment of all hope about Williams not being Hillman. Kimmy and I even designed Hillman College t-shirts way before that line that came out!— I, as often has been the case, was slow to print. Still, I was on the step team in college despite there being no sororities, and I always looked for parallels to the Cosby vision of college. Come to think of it, this may have impacted my choices of friends. [Black table]
Then, towards the end of my time in school, 2006/2007, I began to realize that Cos was talking about my kind of people, the working class schlubs who were just trying to enjoy life in a way that was demeaning. “Pull your pants up!” he was suddenly the old man on the lawn, still grasping for control of the aspirational images that he had presented in his shows. I think this is when I came to truly understand respectability politics and what his agenda was.
Still, at that time I could not just let him go. Too many memories, and still, a sliver of hope. Today, in light of the allegations against someone who has been one of the patriarchal icons in my life, I will go with one of my actual Dad’s favorite sayings, “In order to forgive and be happy, we have to abandon all hope for a better childhood.” And that’s the part of my brain where Bill Cosby lives, in the “hope for a better past“ part, purely fantastical. In a way, that’s where his politics live, on the verge of being an institutional racism denier, and now, a rape allegation “no-comment”er. I am grateful that women (oh my goodness, so many) are coming forward and telling their stories of how ol’ puddin’ pop popped off. I think now, I can let go of all of my Cosby hopes and dreams and move forward into reality.
The water in my ground floor rent stabilized apartment in Flatbush tastes and smells like it has chalky dirt in it. I know this because I used to drink chalky dirty water for fun as a kid who did nasty things to amuse herself. Now I have put away childish things, so this morning as my no-Brita having ass was walking back home from a store with bottled water, I encountered three things on my OWN block that stressed me the fuck out: 1) a tatted up lesbian arm in arm strut nearly knocked me off the sidewalk. Gentrifiers. 2) a group of young men talking to my hindparts from across the street. 3) Jehovah's witnesses at the door of my apartment, not holding the door for my water-bearing self, but waiting until I struggled to open the door to offer me a conversation about God.
So, this is urban life, eh? This is the extreme closeness that I pay a premium for. Sometimes I do feel like Miss Manners, especially on mornings like this one, when I'm just dehydrated and want to go home and quench my thirst.
Practical solution: Get a water filter. Stop being thirsty and irritable out in the streets.
Art solution: Make a modern manners guide for life on the urban frontier.