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Show Us Ya Tits vs. Facebook
Last modified on 2010-06-03 23:20:52 GMT. 35 comments. Top.
Yesterday I got censored. To be honest I was expecting it to happen. I have a fan page for Show Us Ya Tits on Facebook called Show Us Ya Ta-Ta’s (Tits is a no-no word on Facebook so I went with Ta-Ta’s). It is just there to update people on my ongoing photography project about breasts, share breast related news stories and show a few pics. And by few I mean like, five. Facebook has allegedly has a policy about not showing nudity in their images so I always knew at some point Facebook would remove me, or at least my images. It’s just that I thought they would remove all of my images.
So today they did remove pictures, but not as I expected. They only removed the image of me at the recent opening of my exhibition in Fremantle with my 84-year-old Grandmother’s saggy naked bosom in the background, and the image of my nephew breastfeeding (that in an ironic twist I had only uploaded to support a Facebook petition aimed at rectifying the censorship of breastfeeding images). They left the images of the lovely Sexpo Showgirls and their enhanced breasts, the image of the wet t-shirt competition (girls just wanna have fun right?!) and the image of a recently augmented breast, floating in the light of the operating theatre.
So two things; Firstly I am totally stoked. Facebook has just proved that the series I have been photographing for the last five years has a valid point. And secondly I am totally angry that still, still, in 2010 mainstream media is dictating that as long as breasts are young, and shown in a sexual context then they are okay. If they are aged, practical or in any way outside the ‘normal’ standard then they are to be hidden away.
For me Show Us Ya Tits has been about trying to rectify some of that drivel we get fed about women’s bodies through mainstream media, by showing that women’s bodies are fantastic because of their differences. And the intention of the series, which I have been photographing and exhibiting for five years, is to make a difference to the relationships women have with their bodies. The work is comprised of portraits of women from an 11-year-old girl developing breasts and talking about their newfound currency in the classroom, to women with mastectomies, and again to my 84-year-old Grandmother’s saggy sunbaked bosom. As context to these portraits is my documentation of the situations in which breasts are displayed in popular culture –wet t-shirt competitions, augmentation operations, bra parties, and breastfeeding.
I started tentatively at first – unsure how to articulate my intent in such a way to entice to women to undress for me. So I dove in with the familiar, my friends and family, but have now interviewed more women than I can count (well than I have counted). The interest in the project has been overwhelming. Some women have flooded me with tales and some have given me stilted monosyllabic stories – though voluntary participation has become my first criteria. One woman told me she had been waiting for years to tell the story of her breast reduction, and that seeing herself on the gallery wall had made her feel, for the first time, that her scarred breasts were beautiful.
At this point I have to note that my work is not intended to be discriminatory. I think young, fake, perky, perfect breasts are totally beautiful. I think women who have those breasts should be celebrated as much as I think women who have lost breasts to mastectomy should be celebrated. It’s like the thin vs. fat debate. Or if we want, the men vs. women debate. Just as I consider that calling myself a Feminist (which I proudly am) does not automatically make me a man hater, so too do I think that championing the need for all breasts to be given a fair viewing in the images we feed through our mainstream media does not mean I am against putting silicone in your chest. Thin is beautiful, plastic is beautiful. But so too is fat and droopy. Those arguments that pit thin against fat, man against women are archaic; outdated and unnecessary. What I am arguing when I take photos of twins breastfeeding, or a woman with a mastectomy is that media feeds us a load of bullshit and it makes people sick. It makes women hate their bodies. It makes women waste their lives fighting a tide of self loathing because they are never shown what a spectrum of shapes and sizes we come in.
And now Facebook has proved me right. Bummer. The image at the top of the page is the one they left. The image below is the one they took. Now you tell me, what’s so wildly offensive about one, that is not offensive about the other?
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Photo Freo
Last modified on 2010-03-28 19:17:49 GMT. 4 comments. Top.
I still feel tired thinking about this, let alone typing about it. But I can’t sleep and this seems as good a time as any to catch up on blogging. Foto Freo. It was amazing, amazing, amazing, amazing. My friend Rodney put me in touch with a guy called Roger a couple of months before I went to Freo to show them my tits Show Us Ya Tits. I emailed Roger and told him I was having an exhibition in the Foto Freo Fringe and asked him to come along. He offered a swag on the floor of his house if I needed somewhere to stay, I gratefully accepted. Well Roger and his gorgeous flatmate Roel turned out to be, well like, angels or something. I got picked up from the airport, driven everywhere, spoiled with cooked breakfasts in the garden, loved by the cats, and introduced to every man and his dog. Roel even helped me hang my exhibition. See, angels.
And on top of that I was filled to brim with good photography, met some of my photographic idols, had a great show thanks to the lovely Marc Springhetti et al, a little love affair with Fremantle and its gorgeous sunsets (I love that place) all in the company of my friends Kelly, Alan and Katrin. It was seriously blissful. I ate too much cheese, drank too much wine and had a wonderful, wonderful time. Thanks Roger, Roel and Freo.
The song is Paul Simon’s Kodachrome.
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Milk Factory
Last modified on 2010-03-27 19:13:24 GMT. 0 comments. Top.
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Bertie
Last modified on 2010-03-28 18:36:55 GMT. 1 comment. Top.
I went and photographed the force of nature that is Miss Bertie Page at The Joynt. She has this voice that needs its own hurricane warning, there are gorgeous bodies getting nearly naked; it’s fleshy, noisy and fabulous. The red light is a nightmare for shooting, saving images from its evil clutches is impossible, but it was the Mills and Swoon edition of Bertie’s monthly shows so it was at least fitting. I stood next to my beautiful friend Natalie, who joined me on my photographic expedition, and tried to photograph the quieter moments amidst all that lusty swooning.
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Foto Freo Fringe Festival
Last modified on 2010-03-06 05:06:27 GMT. 0 comments. Top.
Foto Freo Fringe Festival. Say that five times fast! So I’m going to fly to Perth for my first time ever (exciting!) and have an exhibition opening as part of this really cool photography festival (even more exciting!). I’m exhibiting Show Us Ya Tits at Artsource Fremantle and while it will be up for a month the opening is on the 20th of March from 4-6pm at Old Customs House, 8 Phillimore St., Fremantle. The lovely Gaby from Mad Fish wines is even sponsoring us with lots of wine for it (this may be the most exciting part!). I currently know three people in Perth/Fremantle so if you know anyone who inhabits that part of the world tell them to come along and enjoy some breasts with their complimentary wine.
This is an article from the Fremantle-Cockburn Gazette from this week (featuring the beautiful Miss B.B. le Buff).
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My friend Luke
Last modified on 2010-03-16 12:34:09 GMT. 2 comments. Top.
This is my friend Luke. I love him. He is one of my favourite people in the world, and until today he was my flatmate. This is a sad state of affairs, and to be honest I’m not quite sure how I am going to cope without him and his beautiful girl Lil across the hall.
Luke loves me too. The reason I know how much he loves me is that he made a t-shirt to wear to my goodbye party.
When he wrote “Fuck Off” it really meant “I’m going to miss you” (and note the deliberate misspelling of my name, engineered to annoy me). When cornered in his native habitat Luke will deny the allegation of love I have leveled at him, but trust me, it’s true.
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Limbo
Last modified on 2010-03-15 06:21:22 GMT. 4 comments. Top.
“A little fact is worth a whole limbo of dreams.” Ralph Waldo Emerson
I feel like I have lived the last couple of months in limbo. Waiting, suspended in a state of terror alternated with a deeply ingrained feeling that I was moving incrementally in the right direction. Late last year I decided a couple of things. Firstly that I wanted to move to Melbourne and run a project at St Kilda Gatehouse, teaching visual communication to the street sex workers who use their facilities. So I applied for a grant, vainly hoping it would be successful. And secondly that I wanted to move overseas, to study in New York. Some of the deep panic was due, of course, to cash. I decided to go ahead with the Gatehouse project whether or not I was successful in my grant application, even if it meant selling my car to fund it. I decided to go ahead with my New York application even though the thought of a) trying to summon up enough dollars to pay for an international education was overwhelmingly daunting and b) trying to do a good job in Melbourne on a really strict time frame was even more daunting. So I put the applications in and proceeded immediately into a state of limbo. Waiting. It was agony.
Then last week happened. Thursday morning an email popped into my account a week earlier than I expected. From the Australia Council for the Arts. Dread took over my stomach, settling like concrete, heavy and cold. “Proceed to your online account to check the outcome of your application” it said. I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to. Though there are many virtues I do not possess, I am pretty good at making myself do things I don’t want. I attribute it to years working for newspapers and having to overcome your sense of dread to walk into funerals, and photograph car accidents and cheque presentations. So I made myself open it. I fumbled through a forgotten password and got to the screen. “Congratulations” it said in green letters “on your successful grant application”.
My heart stopped momentarily. I felt sick. “Um Lily” I called in a wavering voice to my flatmate, “Can you come and look at this please.” She verified that the green letters did not spell out the word sorry. Cue disbelieving hysterical laughter, a few tears and an extended period of walking around in circles totally unsure of what to do with myself. The screen informed me that I had been granted $30,000 (I still find it hard to type all those zero’s) to complete a six-month residency with St Kilda Gatehouse. From that point Thursday became a write off of adrenaline, phone calls and finally an exhausted, relieved slump that my dear friend June remedied with Earl Grey and chocolate brownies. With a clause that I had to keep my mouth shut about THE MOST EXCITING THING THAT HAD EVER HAPPENED TO ME until Monday (it was media embargoed so the official announcement could be made today).
Friday saw the sale of my car to a sweet Doctor Who fanatic, a wonderful ‘Goodbye Brisbane’ party and I felt excited and wiggly inside, like an overgrown puppy. Saturday was a family reunion and an envelope. White, thick paper with the logo of New York University embossed in the upper right hand corner. I approached it with trepidation. Now that the Gatehouse project was being backed financially I was nervous that the start date would make Melbourne rushed and stressful. And in the last couple of weeks I had started to have a niggling though keep popping up in an unscratched corner of my mind quietly suggesting that I might not want to spend two years doing my post graduate study in the area I had applied for.
I took myself to a quiet corner and like a band-aid I tore the envelope open quickly, hoping it wouldn’t catch too much on the hairs of my nerves. “I’m sorry”, it read. I waited for the disappointment to rush in and fill me up, hot and sore. I sat quietly and listened to my nephews play at the other end of the house, waiting. I kept waiting. A surprising emotion took its place. Relief crept in, tiptoeing quietly onto my shoulders. I fought it. “But I really want to live in New York” I told it sternly, “This is a disaster.” Relief shrugged, indicating it couldn’t help being there. “I could have fitted everything in,” I said. Relief shrugged again, suggesting it would be more pleasurable to take my time in Melbourne and really enjoy the project without the stress of deadlines and an impending international move. So I gave in. In the face of rejection from my NYU dream I felt profoundly, deeply relieved. Surprising, but my favourite mantra is to expect humans to be complex and inconsistent, and it appears that I am both. And to paraphrase my favourite jolly wise man, the Dalai Lama, sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck.
I feel so thankful to all of you for helping me limp through limbo, particularly to my flatmate’s who calmly put up with the moments of panic you can usually hide from public view, to my family who are letting me go despite not wanting me not to leave, to Sally Tonkin, my friend and the CEO of St Kilda Gatehouse who has so graciously supported my project. And last but not least my thanks go to all of you have given me abundant words of love in my success, notably my beautiful Tess who was so delighted with my good news that she burst into tears of happiness when I told her. I’ve said it before and I will say it again; I can only do what I can do because of the people in my life supporting me. 2010 is unfolding in the most delightful way, and although my nerves are still strained with wanting this project to be a success I feel excited about where my life is heading. New York isn’t off the cards, but there’s no rush. The future is unknown, and that is my favourite part.
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Jelly Wrestling
Last modified on 2010-03-06 09:25:09 GMT. 6 comments. Top.
I went to Rosie’s and photographed the jelly wrestling. It was a bit tricky to shoot because the strobe was going, mixing with the roving coloured lights, and the flash from the other photographer there. I made the decision to turn my flash off and lose frames because I was loving the other light sources so much.
The girls ripped each others teeny bikini’s off and the crowd roared. They had duct tape over their nipples, in the shape of crosses. It was hilarious when they ended up with no pants and covered nipples. They faux lesbian kissed for the boys. The boys loved it. I ended up covered in jelly (for the record it was pink flavour). I loved it.
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Q-Confidential Interview (Courier Mail 02/03/2010)
Last modified on 2010-03-02 07:01:35 GMT. 2 comments. Top.
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Naked for Art
Last modified on 2010-03-02 06:27:15 GMT. 7 comments. Top.
I should so be in bed. Sleeping. I’ve been awake for more hours than I want to think about but it was totally worth it. And before we delve too deeply, and you get too excited there is no nudity in this post*. Sorry but this time I got my chance to be naked in front of the camera, leaving mine safe, sound and unused in my hotel bedroom.
Today I stripped off with 5,000 other people (including two of my sisters) on the steps of the Sydney Opera House for Spencer Tunick. Like the Spencer Tunick, one of my favourite artists in the world. And it was a totally, profoundly, amazing moment. We took our clothes off, stuffing them into plastic sacks, as the dawn broke overhead, cloudy and cold with no sun to warm us. I grabbed my sisters and the couple of friends we had accumulated and hand-in-hand walked through a cheering crowd to take our place on the Opera House steps, where, for an hour or so we jiggled and giggled and became part of a massive piece of art with bodies of every shape, size, colour, sexuality and age.
But while today was about me taking a significant turn at being in front of the camera, alternatively it could become known as the day Spencer Tunick assessed my breast. Let me clarify, (and quickly!). He was assessing our tan lines. He stopped on my breast. ‘Hmmm. I don’t know. Maybe you’re okay’ he said as he stared at the colour graduating from my chest where the Australian sun beats its harsh stamp to the milky white of the side of my breast that gets hidden under clothes. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s too much?’ he continued as he looked a little longer. At my breast. While I’ll admit I felt mildly panicky I was going to get the boot from the smaller women-only group photo it was funny because I didn’t feel looked at. Not like a individual body, but like I was a canvas and he was the artist. And it felt fine.
I’ve been asking people to show me their tits for a long time, and my series, Show Us Ya Tits, has taught me to appreciate that my body, like all bodies, is no less beautiful for its differences. And that’s why I chose to support Tunick’s installation, stripping both my clothes and inhibitions. Because his art redresses the judgments we have of our bodies, seeing them instead as magnificent canvases with which to view the art of gender, sexuality, health and the ageing process. And I love him for continuing to push that agenda. But today I loved him because he gave me a taste of my own medicine. I showed Spencer Tunick my tits. And, in the end, he never did make a definitive judgment call on them – which is, essentially, what he is all about.
*Oh okay then. Here’s some nudity. See if you can spot me and the sisters.
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