this is a self-serving catalogue of whatever catches my fancy.
doctor who, harry potter, parks and rec, bbc's sherlock, veronica mars, avatar the last airbender, dexter, battlestar galactica, always sunny, flight of the conchords, pushing daisies, miyazaki everything, quality movies & literature, feminism, some current events + general outrage, and miscellaneous fuckery.
I took this last year, but in retrospect, I think it’s my strongest piece from high school.
Working on this project really made me examine my own opinions, preconceptions and prejudices about “slutty” women and women who choose to cover all of their skin alike. I used to assume that all women who wore Hijabs were being oppressed, slut-shame, and look down on and judge any woman who didn’t express her sexuality in a way that I found appropriate.
There was once a princess who saw a mermaid and fell in love. So she went to the woman they called a witch and asked to be turned into a sea creature. The witch granted her wish, but with one condition: she’d have to get the mermaid to love her back, or she would die the way sea creatures do, dissolving into seafoam.
According to George Chauncey’s eponymous Gay New York, the Harlem Renaissance of the ’20s provided an opportunity for gay men to create their own social and cultural spaces within the burgeoning nightlife in the neighborhood.
Anderson photographed men who called to her or whistled her on the street. In her artist statement she writes about one experience,
“As I walked along Houston Street with my fully automated Nikon. I felt armed, ready. I passed a man who muttered ‘Wanna fuck?’ This was standard technique: the female passes and the male strikes at the last possible moment forcing the woman to backtrack if she should dare to object. I wheeled around, furious. ‘Did you say that?’ He looked around surprised, then defiant ‘Yeah, so what the fuck if I did?’ I raised my Nikon, took aim began to focus. His eyes darted back and forth, an undercover cop? CLICK.”
Anderson takes the power from her male pursuers, allowing them nothing more than the momentary fear that their depravity has just been captured in a picture.