Writer, indeed!

 

Untitled (Never Perfect Enough), Barbara Kruger, 2020.

Dear Writers,

Another little incident around the extended family table, another little day of hashing out what the hell all that could have meant.  

One thing I know, is that I was offended at the notion of not being noticed as a writer.  What, is there a minimum page requirement?  Psh.  Are people using words without a publisher exempt from this action, then, of putting down words on to a screen or page?  These ones are 'not-writers?'  Psh.

I guess what I am saying here, and I invite you to rise up with me and claim your place as a writer, is that I WRITE, therefore, I AM (A) WRITER.

PS

I know, it's pretty forceful, but, I am pretty sure that I have already pleaded with, permitted you, to claim your place as artist, and I believe that the saying it is what makes it true, not anything else really.  Let me try to give you an example...  How many words in a language constitute knowing how to speak it?  How many times do you need to pedal around your block before you are a bicycle rider?  How many hours do you need to play guitar to be a musician?  Of course I am aware of the fine points, of the tens of hours a week practicing, of the notion of some-  I know some Spanish, un poquito.  I play a few chords.  Et cetera.  If it makes you feel more confident, you can add the some:  I am a sometimes artist.  I do some writing.  I can live with that; but I cannot live with arbitrary gate-making and -keeping, or the false notion that unless you make money at it, you are not it.  The difference between you singing in your car and the singer in the band is that you are not in a band currently.  Period.

Two posters, two questions, no answers.

 

Barbara Kruger, silkscreen, 1989.

Dear To Whom it May Concern,

I am not always sure who you are; I am not even sure who I am, so forgive me for sending you things you don't agree with, or things you don't even know exist.  

I remember, more than ten years ago, explaining why a particular woman (Ms. X) was wearing a close-fitting dress to a woman (Ms. BB) of an older generation.  I said that wearing tight clothes like that, revealing clothes like that, body-conscious clothes like that, was a kind of rebellion, an act of resistance.  This made very little sense to Ms. BB, because Ms. X didn't 'have the body for those clothes.'  Ms. X was supposed to use pleats and tailoring to hide her shape.  Ms. BB was raised on pleats and tailoring, as tools to present her body in the "best" way possible.  Of course, the rebellious act of wearing clothes you are not supposed to is not just about refusing to meet people's expectations; there is an unspoken idea that women with the wrong kind of body are not even sexual beings; they are aberrations on every level.  They cannot 'control' themselves (I know!  Isn't that just great?  Wild, out of control, so best stay out of my way!) and they refuse to be 'good' (again, so delightfully delinquent!).

Well, that is your introduction to the following two articles, which I have been considering carefully, and asking myself two questions:  Do they hate my joy?  Do I want them to touch me?

Article One.

Article Two.

Ellen Hochberg, 2012.