Bestiary

Bestiaries were popular during the Middle Ages, as people, scientists in particular, worked to build systems of classifications, so that humans could then "possess" knowledge about those beings/things which were classified.  A bestiary is a compilation of knowledge about beasts, or, to put it more concretely, a natural history encyclopedia about animals, that sometimes included birds or even rocks.  These volumes were considered valuable, because each illustration or description was usually followed by some form of a moral lesson.  Therefore, the bestiary, itself, was inherently tied to Western Christianity, and often contained references to the Septuagint or the Bible.  I see this not only as a way to classify creation from a religious standpoint, but also as one of the avenues through which classification became consumed in a moral language--thus often leading to narratives of "good" and "evil", "clean" and "unclean," etc. 

This is why the work of Mateo de la Rioja is quite interesting.  He has filed his erotic photography under the title of "Bestiary."  He calls his work an "incomplete bestiary," and claims to be merely documenting human beings as the "beasts" that they are.  That entails,  de la Rioja explains,  "exploring their frailty, their capriciousness and their tenderness."  In his work one sees the revelation of human passion and desire, as well as human fear and vanity.  What makes his work interesting is that, unlike the bestiaries of a time long ago, there is no moral lesson.   Sex is natural.  The body is natural.  Desire is natural.  These concepts are not cast as "sinful", "dirty," or "immoral" in his photographs. These concepts become the objects of beauty; a way to view life as mysterious and magnificent when viewed through the lens of his camera.

There are some criticisms, of course. His work is predominantly heteronormative.  That is, most of the photographs that depict sex are between men and women. That, however, does not mean that they can be enjoyed and appreciated by one gender. At the same time, there is always the classic feminist anti-porn narrative, in which these photos could be read as the objectification of women and men.  I, however, reject that particular narrative concerning these photographs.  The purpose of a bestiary is, in a sense, objectification.  In many of the photos, the intent does not appear to be one of domination of a body, whether it is male or female, but rather the glorification of bodies, both male and female, as both beautiful and natural.  This can be identified in just the titles of the three photographs I have used in this post: 1) The Trinity; 2) Under Her Mantle; 3) Lunar Ascendancy.

So, feel free to be appalled at all the genitals and caught scenes of copulation, if you like. I, however, appreciate any attempt made to make us comfortable with our bodies, and all attempts to make us realize that sex IS NOT shameful and something secret to be hidden and discussed in dark corners.

Bodyscapes

I don't remember where I first came across the work of Jessica Harrison, but have been intrigued with it for some time.  Her work pushes understandings about the body, the body's connection to materiality, and the body's relationship to space.    In a description of her philosophy behind her work she states:


"The things I make are about the body: the body in space, the space within the body and the space in-between the two.  The body is something we all share in one shape or form, the filter through which we all experience the world around us and the objects in front of us."  


I think it also points to the cyborgian relationship human beings have created with "things."  Our possessions or things come to be a part of who we are; a part of how we define ourselves.  Some of her work literally uses recognizable pieces of the human body to construct everyday objects.  In many ways it appears absurd, but is still recognizable as something utilitarian and normal.

Harrison further notes that her work is about experimenting with boundaries:


"I am exploring the significance of surfaces in our construction of knowledge through making and experimenting, playing on our instincts and assumptions built from an historical optical hierarchy and propensity to touch what catches our attention. Our surfaces do not just act as boundaries between our inside and outside, between ‘us’ and ‘that’, but play the most vital role in our perceptions of the world around us.  The objects I make attempt to unpack these perceptions and interrupt these interfaces to bring our assumptions to the surface."


Her objects serve as a point of rupture, where we question what we are seeing and feel discomfort from the disruption of normalized boundaries related to the body, to death, and to the ordinary.  If only I still owned my dollhouse from when I was a child.....

Blood Script

In 2008, artist Mary Coble embarked upon one of the most painful and prolific performance art pieces I have ever encountered.  She began this project by compiling a list of the most hateful words, slurs, and phrases used by individuals all over the world to belittle and dehumanize others.  She then had 75 of those words/slurs/phrases tattooed on her body without ink, creating bloody etchings on her arms, torso, and legs.  As each tattoo was done, she would place a piece of white paper over the scar, letting her blood form a stencil of each word that had been etched into her skin.  These bloody pieces of paper were then tacked on a wall, the piece growing larger and larger as her body became more covered in hate and in blood.

To me this speaks of the link between words and violence.  Words can be violent and words can sometimes lead to physical violence.  I also imagine what it means to take on all the hate one can imagine and carve it into one's body leaving a lasting impression; a raised scar.  To me, this is what happens to individuals who are on the receiving end of these words/slurs/phrases.  Coble is merely showing us what we cannot see or what we choose to ignore.

Pictures of the performance and a brief statement about the performance can be accessed here:

http://www.marycoble.com/pages.php?content=gallery.php&navGallID=90

Raggedy Ann

there is the moment

when the other shadow

slips too close

the legs quickens their pace

left right left right left right

breathe in.

hold.

glance

leftrightleftrightleftright

all the while

streetlights tower like

dead jack-o-lanterns

chanting mantras

don’t look back

shadows converge

strong hands circle the neck

the body

jerks, strains, finally folds

a rag doll with closed hands

and a stitched mouth…

she hurls screams

into blackness

but her mouth betrays her

the stitches hold

and her eyes will not close

there is picture but no sound;

movement but no chorus

frantically she bucks her straw hips

to dislodge the dead weight

that suffocates her

but there is only the

whiplash of bone

cutting through silence

all that is left

is the ringing;

the reverberations

from the pavement

echoing

“you bitches are all the same.”

her second mouth

a single scar

that wrecks her swan posture

a second mouth

that screams redemption

to the city gutter

that swallowed her blood like rain

while she waited

to finally sleep

without shaking and cutting her teeth

he carved her a smile

for the ones she had missed

while she was waiting

for winter to pass

and the sidewalk to finally give in

he carved her a smile

so she could no longer speak

her tears mixed with iron

and the city's cold shoulder gave way

her hands flailing openclose like a fishmouth

where are the women of Dan

with their swords

to fight this plague of locusts?

where is the rising

like air ?

her feet are dancing death

no sword in her mouth

the air mocks her grasp

and night falls hard and terrible

her second mouth

gapes open like a cavern

her second smile

seeps through the cracks

he pounds her skin into pavement

and the city, it keeps, it keeps.

EAC © 2010

i was wondering

i was wondering if you could

fall free fast like flying

from the bottle opener of time

catch the landscape in your palm

pushing past flint rock aberrations

crater stone and knee cap strong

the water rushes in leaving me

wading through silence long gone

i was wondering if you could

run race streak like clouds

on fire in the june sky

hold on to me as i burn

contesting the wooden edges of space

the fragile fabric of our youth disappears

like birds along the horizon long erased.

EAC © 2005

Your Hands

your hands erase me

the acrylic stillness of your fingertips

pocketing pieces of my flesh--

a fitting offering for the red want

that floods my veins

you watch painstakingly

as i disappear where my ends meet

where the yearning suffocates

and sizzles like an open wire

in the grey weary night

i have become empty and estranged

uncloaked and unkempt

clinging to the walls

that soothe the edges

and swallow me whole

hold me phantom

a little while longer

EAC © 2010

how it feels...

i can feel it coming now that i am older. slow and pulsating. creeping and suffocating. i can brace myself for the impact. place my hand over my heart and count the beats like a fated metronome. when i was smaller, it would hit me unannounced, hurling me into blackness. the buzzing in my ears would drown out all sound. i would bury my face into my palms, wet with tears. my hot breath moving across the valleys of my hands, the only thing letting me know i was still alive.

now my skin starts to hurt, and i always fear that this is the moment when i have finally become untouchable. i feel the blackness seeping into my lungs, making it hard to breathe. i feel the tar forming underneath my feet, making it hard to move. i feel my heartbeat in my head, trumpeting the static that crackles and screams, making it hard to think or speak. the ghosts get restless and the sheets scrape at my skin. i long for hands that are not my own. words that will soothe the wounds. i try to erase myself and redraw the lines, but my hand shakes and the lines are charged and raw.

when i was smaller, i would climb the trellis on the back porch to the roof where i would lie staring at the sky for hours, waiting for the blackness to leave...inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, hoping that the wind would fill my lungs with air that didn't taste like acid. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. i would trace words into the roof tiles until my skin bled like some ancient ritual to appease the gods. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, amen.

i can feel it coming now that i am older. i brace myself for the impact.

the photo

there is a photo of you and i. i am small. my knees curled to my stomach. my face, covered, resting on my hands. mom said that is how i must have slept in the womb, already protecting myself from violence unseen. you are asleep, stretched out, taking up space. i curl up trying to disappear.

you are asleep and i am wide awake, a thin grimace on my face. there is a small distance between us, and i will not cross it, because i don't want to be touched by you. everything in that picture is lifeless. except the sheets--they are only thing filled with color. i still have them. they still smell like that house.

i drove by it once, slowing at the driveway, staring at the oak tree in the front yard, the sloping branches where i would hide, curled up in the womb of the tree waiting for it to pass. there are only a few pictures of us, only one where i am smiling. you rarely smiled. you collected things that were beautiful and tried to keep them still and untouched. sometimes, i think, i am still waiting for it to pass.

the dance

i have been unable

to look you in the eyes

since he disappeared

in smoke and ash

since the phone call came

and i wept on the sidewalk

until morning

and now

you are here

your eyes

filled with the same

lackluster performance

and the heated effort

to push it back

drown out

the way he used to laugh

with a drink

drown out

the songs that he sang

with a dance

i would never say it

of course

that he is there

reflected in your pupils

like i know he is in mine

i only move in

holding you up

my hand against your back

you mistake my touch

for something closer

to the performance

a lie

a fake gesture

i only wanted

to say

it's okay

to break

so you can break

the dance continues

we fight the reflection

my hand never leaves your back.

EC © 2005

Scene 1: The Kitchen

the crack of his hand against her cheek propels her backward. her head snaps unconvincingly to the right, her temple smashing into the iron knob of the kitchen cabinet. it takes mere seconds to occur, but years, it seems, for her to slump to the tiled floor. a wave of alarmingly red pain washes over her. shes sways disturbingly, her hands flailing to find something to hold her upright. the wave finally overcomes her, her body falling to the floor.

from this angle, everything is white. everything is blank. from this angle, thought--they ride the tide of unconsciousness, falling faster with her toward blackness.

someday....my....someday...was that something else...what was it...

she fights the blackness, pulling her hands up under her chest, preparing to lift herself off the floor. all she can see is his scuffed, leather dress shoes. pacing, pacing, pacing. and then they stop. the red, searing wave is replaced by the familiar feeling of nausea. she clenches her jaw, locking her teeth, forming a barricade. her stomach jerks, the spasms coming faster. she feels the powerlessness of her body, but she fights anyway.

don't vomit. don't vomit. don't vomit. don't vomit. don't. don't. don't....

he is moving again. his feet come closer. he is shouting, but she can't understand what he is saying. she can't look away from his shoes. from this angle, everything is blank. from this angle, his words do less damage. he finds her unresponsiveness infuriating. he draws back his right foot. she blinks. before she can tell her body to move, to shrink, to disappear, the tip of his shoe digs into her abdomen, forcing her to curl inward, all the air contained within her body escaping through her mouth in a guttural cry that drowns his bellowing insults.

she reaches for something, her hands slipping, grappling with the sticky cleanness of the floor. there is nothing to grasp. she gives up, placing her cheek to the floor, trying to find the air to fill her lungs again.

oh god. oh god. oh god. please. please. please stop. please. stop. stop. stop.

"get up. we are going to be late." he walks away.

she watches his shoes walk away. as he leaves the kitchen, his shoes almost look polished. almost.

slowly, she begins to move. it takes more convincing on her part every time--to tell the arm to bend, to place the hand on the floor, to push her upper body up, to move her feet inward... finally, she is standing, her hands shaking, her breath still coming out in ragged gasps. she carefully smooths her shirt and tucks her hair behind her ears. these, the actions of normalcy that helps maintain some sense sanity.

already the moment has passed. she will get dressed. they will not be late.

I Know How.

i don't mind being alone. i'm comforted by silence and the sound of my feet shuffling across the hardwood floors. i know how to be alone. i grew up alone, huddled around books and papers, murmuring to stuffed animals to drown out louder, hostile voices i was too young to hear. i know how to be alone, but there are days...days when the silence is too loud and my hands are clumsy and incapable.

i'll slip into a dress, revel in the fabric as it brushes past my hips, sits calmly on my waist. i slowly slip my arms through the open spaces, working my hands down to the start of the zipper. at a certain point i can go no further. i wrench and turn, grimace and twist. just a few more inches and i would be complete, but i can't cross the distance of my back. i sit on the edge of the bed in frustration, finally ripping the dress off, cursing as i rustle through drawers, kicking shoes across the floor, and stomping indignation into the floorboards.

i don't mind being alone. i know how to be alone. i have thrown away all the dresses.

3 AM

3 a.m. phone calls

cutting through silence

the jagged edges

where i used to tell you about my dreams,

nightscapes of thrashing nightmares

crashing through my sleepwalk sleeping

soft and low i could hear you breathing

as i raged and stormed

sketching my death monsters in the air

static live wires,

you received them

held them in your hand

weighed them

let them drop

massive and writhing

on the floor

i think it scared you,

the pretty girl with the ugly dreams

startled and shaking

i would call just to see

if you were still breathing

all i could see

coming out of my pillows

was blood and bone

i had a dream.

who died.

everyone. all the time,

i howled until the line went quiet.

i still wake

swimming under the covers

the slow pulsating sickness

trapped in sleep moving pictures

i reach for the phone

wanting to unleash them

into the earlynightmorning

but there is no number

to dial anymore

ariel

ariel is with me now

her laughter rattles my bones

her black stench stretches in my lungs

cellophane goddess of inspiration

languidly draped over my face

sticking to my mouth

her asphyxiation grip

her airtight embrace

stasis where i strain

she says she knew you

the woman with the pen

the fat pen held in your head hands

she says to tell you

you did not let her stay her welcome

she hauls me through air

red haired and clawing my nights

you had lady lazarus mistaken

they are both red in their intent

there is no white godiva

only lioness and cannibal

knocking on my mind's eye

i can see her through the keyhole

eyes afire and teeth stretched wide

i tremble in my cobweb corner

scratching the walls

and murmuring incantations

i have no calling

i still own my skin

but she is the beekeeper you know

she is both the honey and the hive

she will devour me

into the shadows,

the cauldron of mourning

her whisperings

made you bleed words

made you inhale your death

suffocating on the world

she helped you construct

out of paper and blood

and i can feel her diamond eyes

cutting my veins

bleeding me onto the page

tell her

i have no calling

tell her

i still own my skin

the painting

the acrylic sheen

begins to fade

sharp strokes

of purple

royal and loud

sweep beneath

the eyes

gray lines

stenciled at the corners

of the mouth

the hand

pauses and shakes

the brush

falters and drops

the muddled water

from an overturned glass

runs down the face

finely

she becomes unintelligible

finally

she is broken

a swirling pool

of the abstract

picasso's dream,

her mother's

latest nightmare

in pieces

she smiles

in dark cracks

of time

she rages...

Stream of Consciousness.

i've got flowers underneath my fingernails. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love. the floorboards creek and shift when i'm not looking. i painted the walls blue so i could sleep. my skin is plastered with ghosts that i can't shake. embedded fingerprints and gaping word wounds that burn when my eyes flutter half dead sleep. the mattress has a valley where my body rests less. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love. yesterday was one of those days where i couldn't breathe and i could feel my heartbeat in my hands. i moved my feet but held my tongue. i scribbled on the walls and waited for it to pass. i wanted to deconstruct my thoughts like a shattered oedipus. artifacts for the museum. but the static was too loud. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love.

Dreamscapes

dreamscapes haunt walking hours

shadowing my footsteps

rolling like fog in my breath

white and wounded

fragmented ghosts

that paint the skin behind my eyelids

bodies that hang from rafters

fish mouths gaping

arms flailing over the frayed noose

hospital doors

and the wave of dread

radiating from the exit sign

bullet holes and shattered glass

dummy bodies on the floor

toes sticky with blood

the woman with the broken face

the smiling neck stitched and raw

waking to sleep

with scratches that span my fingers

searching for who is not there

who is missing from the side.

insomnia 4

my eyes spiderweb red. i rub them raw with my knuckles. the tv is too loud but not loud enough to drown out the radio stations in my head. i press my cheek to the glass of the windowpane. it is cool against my flushed skin. the blackness comforts. all the other houses are dark. everyone is asleep except for me. everyone is still and i am a fine frenzy of nerves. i tear off my shirt because it grates against my skin. the ceiling cracks have grown bigger. they are starting to peel and flake. i try to slow my breathing, close my eyes, keep motionless, but this is all a big charade. i am simply falling awake.

susie sits

susie sits

in her cramped apartment

on rock haven street

watching the door

with shifting eyes

she pulls at her clothes

waiting for the knock

that comes everyday

busy B with her

twitching hands

and greasy hair

her Cheshire smile

just one hour

just one hit

just one fuck

money in your hand

love out of pocket

oh susie q.

busy B coaxes

we love you

susie stares

at her fingers

picked and raw

blood that runs wrong

always at

Home

In her

Veins

oh susie q.

busy B coaxes

we know you

susie reads

the tv too loud

flipping pages too fast

the words blur

and disappear

her foot taps relentlessly

on the dirty carpet

footsteps cause

her to shudder

the monsters have moved

from underneath the bed

to her front door

oh susie q.

busy B screams

we've got you...

Music From the Day...

does it seem like I'm looking

for an answer to a question I can't ask
i don't know which way the feather falls
or if i should blow it to the left

made off

don't stray
my kind's your kind
i'll stay the same
pack up
don't stray

close your eyes but don't sleep...
for the people who can't eat
who work with no sleep
for the child with no shoes on their feet
a generation who flash heat...
after dark my city's a fuse
after dark my city's a fuse

oh, say say say
oh, say say say

say enough, if you say it not is love
i’m gonna wait, gonna wait, gonna make it home...

‘cause she said love was just like youth
that it was time worth wasting

i wish that you didn't love me no more, i've been dead for years,
i wish that you didn't own me no more, i've been here before.

(norah jones, yeah yeah yeah's, one day as a lion, yeah yeah yeah's, wakey! wakey!, the distillers)