Bill Henson – Does nudity equate to pornography?

The Bill Henson debacle – Part 1:

Art and pornography.

I have no qualifications here, and yet it would appear to me that there are some quite fundamental differences to the goals and effects of art and porn. Art uses nudity, and the naked subject to pose questions, to unsettle, to provoke thought, to evoke memory – we search the naked subject’s face and body language – how is s/he feeling? What is happening? What do they want? Art taps into nudity and sexuality to query or capture the effects of sexuality, of constructions of gender, of standards of beauty – perhaps we find a particular nude captivating, enthralling in its power, but the sexuality on display is complicated, rich, human, bodily…far more complicated and nuanced than the sexuality on offer in porn.

Porn it would seem to me uses nudity for the sole goal of getting us to reach into our pants. That’s why we look it up, that’s why it sells. We’re after the Macdonalds of sexual gratification, and there are certain archetypal  representations of bodies, sex and sexuality which cut through all the conscious choices we make about sexuality and present us with some rather cliched images of sexuality designed for the specific purpose of getting you there quickly. Women playing either the virgin or the whore…girls writhing around with certain sexualised props, it’s all cliched poses and facial expressions, all “Golly gee Mister, I’d like some of what you’ve got there in your pants”, all “I’ve been a good girl all my life, but OH BABY you make me wanna be bad”, and “You can put it ANYWHERE”. In contrast to art, porn is not asking us to quietly, slowly ask ourselves questions about what we find erotic, it is not asking us to weigh and measure the standards of beauty or the consequences of sexualising bodies so young, to ask us to empathise with the conflicting feelings of a teenager who has had sex for the first time…on the contrary, the language advertising porn tells us this shit is HOT HOT HOT, the more “wrong” the more “hot”, don’t think, just wank, feel guilty later. I’m not in fact against pornography as such…I am against advertising and imagery so common on the net such as “Young teen slut takes it up the arse for the first time and cries”, and I am frustrated by the idiocy of the images based on sex=conquering=degradation of women=the younger the better.

I am against the teenage female body being held up as the ideal of femininity and sexuality – which it is in mainstream society in some fairly obvious ways. I’m thinking here of the revolting display of adult men salivating after Anna Kournacova when she was 15. I’m thinking of preteen runway models, sexed up to the hilt and modelling clothes designed for *WOMEN*, I’m thinking of the masses of ads for porn featuring teens, of modelling competition shows whereby teenagers are encouraged to sex it up or be percieved as cold…This idealisation means that a teenagers body is sexualised in a proprietary way (again I refer to being quite graphically sexually harrassed from the age of 13) by adults who should know better, that there are massive pressures on real teenagers to “sex it up” from an early age and that the standard of beauty is unattainable almost as soon as you reach adulthood (is “Enjoy it while you’re kids, before you’re too old to be sexy” really the message we want to send about sex to children?)

I cannot see the images which have been banned, so I can’t comment on whether I feel they have any pornographic qualities…however the images I have seen of Hensons teenage subjects have been immensly moving. It would appear that what Henson is doing in his work is examining the effects of our society on actual teenagers, investigating the pressures of youthful beauty, of the pressure of sexualisation on teenagers. The images I’ve seen have never been “Yeah, dig it, I just had anal for the first time, it hurt, and MAN that’s hot, here’s the Youtube video of him coming on my face after” – how can society thrive on an economy of worship of the teenage body, use teenage models, tell teens to sex it up, then condemn a man who tries to point out the confusion, chaos and ambiguity all this can set up for real people?

When I was growing up so many kids were having sex at thirteen or fourteen…I remember listening as one friend asked another how it had felt…the smile slipped and she said in a distubed way “It felt like a stick was in there”. I remember being really thrown. She seemed kinda proud to have graduated to this new grown up activity, but it seemed it had not been enjoyable for her in the least. It had been a service performed in the duty of her boyfriend. I also remember the beach parties I was never allowed to go to (I never argued that much to be allowed) – two twin girls had moved to the area from the city, one got horrendously drunk and the boys “took turns” on her. She was, by all accounts barely conscious. At school on Monday she was actively villified for being a ’slut’, while the guys were business as usual. I say all this not to set up a seperate debate on the specific impact on girls (which is well worth having)…but to point out that adolescents do have real experiences with sex, often unsatisfying in the extreme, often barely or not consensual, often causing conflicting emotions…I have seen many images of Henson’s which explore this aspect of adolescence, and in asking us to remember what it was like, to remember the chaos, and angst and confusion, to identify with confused teenagers, to ponder growing up, to identify with raw emotions.

There are artists who would explore pornography in art, who would utilise any overlaps, who would use pornographic images in order to make us ask question about ourselves and about pornography. I do not believe that Hensons work falls into even this category. Every image I’ve seen has been to ask us to engage with ambiguity, emotion, motion, places, time, real people. None of the images have been posed in the porn style, they are moody, evocative, haunting, disturbing, ethereal…again. I cannot answer for these pieces as they’ve been removed and I have not seen them. But you know what? That’s enough for me to feel that these people have condemned themselves. If these artworks really are indecent, then show us so we know you’re right. To refuse to do so seems to imply that there’s a hidden/repressed paedophile in all of us, just waiting to be triggered by the mighty ‘temptation’ of the naked adolescent body…for one thing that’s a disturbingly bleak and pessimistic view of humanity, and for another it’s an awful thing to do to teenagers…”Your body is the site of temptation to sin”. Dangerous dangerous logic. I will write about that next post.

Velcro-attached penises – the way of the future

So, I’ve joked about this with friends before before, but I really do think that the world would be a better and more equal place…if penises were attached by velcro.

Hear me out!

I started getting sexually harrassed by men as I walked down the street at thirteen. Groups of men making lewd comments at thirteen year old girls? Instant red card. Ref comes in, snatches the penis(es) and says “You can have THIS back when you behave”.

I walked past a man once who waggled his eyebrows at me and made a noise like he was having an orgasm. It was gross and uncomfortable. I told him it was rude and asked him to desist. Everytime I saw him after that he wolfwhistled at me then looked the other way to pretend it wasn’t him. I mean I do NOT want to be reaching down his pants, but if I confiscated his penis, you betcha he’d learn to shut the fuck up. And at least it would mean I didn’t jump up and pummel the fucker’s face til he cried for mercy.

I hear the counter-arguments amassing: HORROR! You wants to take the pee-pee??? What if WE took your VAGINA away??? Well, firstly, let’s be honest, sexual harrasment is a constant for women, and penises get used as weapons, or as the threat of harm quite often in society, particularly where rape is used as a tool of war, or a tool of control. The vulva does not have such a prominent role as a weapon of violence.  Second, I don’t *want* to take it, I am not saying let’s pre-emptively remove them all, I’m saying act like a tool and you’re on the bench for a few days, though I do think if we’re talking war, the penises come off til you come home, seems fair really. Maybe you can be alloted some alone time with them at night. But for real? Don’t act like a turd and you’ve got nothing to worry about. If you’re sitting there moaning about “WHY do the feminists hates me so much?” if you AREN’T behaving like an ARSEHOLE then this is not about you!

So I really think it works as a concept: you get to confiscate something of importance, there’s no pain, no violence, no ridicule, just a straight up consequence, like confiscating a favourite toy from a child who’s having a tantrum. You take it away, they have quiet time, they apologise, you give it back reminding them to behave better next time – except where they’ve been violent with it. Then maybe we talk about more long-term solutions. And they know you fucking mean business. Men might think twice before harrassing or scaring women. Choices and consequences dudes. Remember those?

So I’m thinking I confiscate them (yep, I fancy myself the Penis-Confiscating-Avenger), label them, store them on racks (like pool queues) and then the men come and line up and make their cases for having them back again. Any macho misogynist anger will result in a lengthening (hehe) of your suspension. Sounds infinately reasonable to me!

I ran this by someone a while ago and they thought I’d be utilising them for pleasure. No way, this is strictly business yáll. Confiscate and return. Besides, dunno if you noticed guys but when you are being an arsehole, we don’t actually truck with your penis. So if I’ve got a wall of penises (penii?) lined up on racks for being JERKS then it’s hardly likely to make me feel saucy. And some stranger’s disembodied dick? Sorry, they’re just NOT that irresistable! Hate to crush you like this guys, but we’re not mad for dick like we’re mad for chocolate. It’s contextual.

I mean I might be tempted to draw little moustaches on them and take photos, but that would be veering away from the respect for the business-like structure I’d like to keep in place.

Anyway. What reminded me of this revolutionary theory? Today’s blog post by Sam and the City. I know, I shouldn’t read her, it just makes my ears bleed with rage. But I did and it was horrible.

So it’s all about this amazing new author (Gareth Sibson)! Who claims [gasp] women are all boring! And self absorbed! And far too ready for sex! And nowhere near as sexy as they think! It’s really offputting for him (why doesn’t this guy shag his mates then? I mean they’re apparently SOOOOO interesting, witty, demure and coy, which are all the right turn ons for him. If women turn you off and are so inferior compared to men…why don’t you get yourself a boyfriend? OHhhh right. Women are fine for acting as a mastubatory hole for you cos you don’t wanna be like “gay”  or anything! Apparently “real men” shag women – while simultaneously hating them and everything they say/do/think/represent).

Says Sibson: “These women aren’t as sexy, strong and independent as they like to think they are,” he says. “They are unsavoury and positively rapacious ladies with a penchant for boasting about their bra size within moments of meeting.”

WTF??? Unsavoury? Rapacious? Dude, you have a SERIOUS problem!

Sam asks us if the author is right. Should we conclude we’re all insane? We’re all boring? We’re all desperate?

How about concluding that this prick read his dates DIARY and spazzed out over her having a thriteen year old moment which probably meant NOTHING other than she didn’t know him enough to loathe him like he deserves, how about concluding he’s full of shit, that he’s another attention-seeking misogynist?

He’s a PRIME candidate for the first one to go up on the rack. Simmer down buddy, work through your issues. Choose your dates more carefully. Stop reading other people’s diaries. Consider your own idiocy for a while. Once you’ve done this and have reached a zen-like state, where I can be sure that vitriolic women-hating bile will not pour forth from you, I will give it back.

Fuck!

“What’s that flavour?”, “Well, son that’s the taste of achievement”

So. I have just finished cooking my very first barbeque.

I dunno about the rest of the world, but over here in Australia, a barbeque is usually cooked by a guy…it’s kind of a rule. Obviously there would be exceptions. I’ve never really seen it though. I mean ever. In thirty years of Aussie summers. WTF is that about?

In general, the men congregate around the  barbeque, or the near vicinity, and both respect the guy’s barbequeing in the sense of not physically interfering, and simultaneously disrespecting, by way of making observations of their far superior techniques with tools and meat.

The women? Well, we congregate an elsewhere. We’re flexible like that in that we aren’t drawn to the machine in quite the same way, and aren’t especially interested in meat-based soliloquoys.

A while ago I observed the manly joy barbequeing gave my boyfriend, so I decided to buy him a brand spanking new barbeque for his birthday. Man, it was a fun surprise to spring. So he has been having fun experimenting with this swanky new machine, and I have been having fun…well eating the results.

So I started thinking about bbqs, and when his friend said he was moving overseas, it came to pass that I was inheriting his barbeque. 

So that arrived the other day, and I was determined today to give it a shot.

Now there are two things which essentially make me a little nervous: small spaces and flamability. Given the size (or lack thereof) of my balcony, and the fact that the barbeque is essentially a fuck-tonne of gas, and some of it is on fire I was a little edgy about my first time.

So. I came home from work, super tired and super hungry, and fixed on getting out there and using the new bbq, getting inside and eating as quickly as possible. 

I - like my father before me – often eschew safety instructions, preferring just to give things a shot. I am trying to change my ways here, but unsurprisingly, tonight I did not. I had my instructions on how to work a bbq, (attach gas bottle, switch it on), I had a timetable, I was ALL OVER THIS SHIT. I am WOMAN, I shall not be defeated.

I get the food ready then go out to the balcony (where the light bulb blew, like three months ago and requires unscrewing the fitting, something I am infinitely capable of, but for various reasons – and laziness HAS to be one of them – have not done). So it is really quite dark. Because a way to make a small space, potentially explosive machinery (and a general sense of nervousness about both those things) a much more fun combination is to try it for the first time in limited visibility.  

First I wrestled with the hose/bottle procedure. Then I think “Fuck. What if it’s leaking? How would I tell??”. Oh well. Let’s just test it shall we? I tighten it a bit for good measure, then begin. 

So the first plate lights easy peasy. The second one doesn’t seem to want to. The little voice of reason says “Go look at the fucking instructions will you?” so I do. But that just tells me to turn the dial.

Which I do…and I dunno maybe this is normal, but there’s a menacing rushing WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO sound (like it wanted to be a woosh, maybe a whoomp, but either way, it definately wanted to be a bad noise ending in no eyebrows and smouldering hair), and I very nearly made a mess in my pants, but turned it off before I blew my head off.

So, you may well be laughing, but fuck off! I DID it. With one burner admittedly because I was too much of a fraidy pants to try the second again, but I DID it!

A small step for…well, anyone really, but a giant step…towards me being able to cook on a barbeque. 

So without further ado, here, for the folks in SanFran, and well…anyone interested over here (though I get the chances of that are slim at best) are the photos of my superby masterful and “manly” bbq! (Note that there is a carefully placed beer in the background, having been instructed explicitly, and also observing for many years that one must NEVER barbeque without an ale at hand. Note also how the label faces away. Pure Blond didn’t seem quite the right *tone* when trying to brag about my newfound gender equity).

So my son ate of the bbq and was impressed by the flavour…but said (in a manner it must be admitted, that somewhat took the wind from my sails) “No WONDER people like barbequing so much! I mean it takes like NO skill at ALL!”. Jeez.