My name's Rianna and I'm a feather-holic

I recently bought a feather collar. It was looking at me funny, so I said 'Sup?', and it replied that it wanted to spend it's life round my neck. I couldn't leave it there, looking so sweet like that. Now, I want feathers on everything; heels especially. And some new, enormous dance fans a-la Sally Rand. What fun I'd have with those babies! Sigh.

Is it 'Art'?

At uni, we had this conversation constantly: "Is it 'Art'?" It never failed to illicit much desk-thumping, eye-rolling, finger-pointing, and many disparaging comments on the sorry lack of intelligence possesed by those in the opposing corner of theory to oneself.
I was reminded again how volatile this course of debate can be when I read the recent review of the Aussie photographer Bill Henson's latest show in Melbourne.
I'm not going to post pictures here, because I'd rather not have someone demand my blog gets flagged. Which in itself would suggest that the censors have already won this debate. Before continuing I'd like to specify that a) I'm NOT CONDONING CHILD PORNOGRAPHY. I'M ABSOLUTLEY AGAINST CHILD PORNOGRAPHY, b) I'm talking about this because I've wanted to gauge the opinion of my readers on this subject for ages, and c) the editorial I'm going to post is WIDLEY AVAILABLE ON THE INTERNET AND HAS BEEN POSTED PREVIOUSLY ON NUMEROUS FASHION-RELATED BLOGS.
I have actually seen some of Bill Henson's work in the past and will never forget my reaction to it. It's very different in the flesh to what it seems in magazines or photographs online. Bigger, (obviously), and far more confronting. I believe it would be impossible for anyone with half a brain cell to view his work and NOT have alarm bells going off in their minds about what it contains. But is that not the point of 'art'? To cause debate? To push the viewer to a deeper understanding of their own 'human-ness' by way of coercing them to decide what they stand for, and what they stand against, in visual culture and society?
I found it simultaneously necessary and interesting that Henson's show was closed in 2008, after the police decended and took numerous photographs which had been deemed child pornography. I mean, Henson does use underage 'models'. I for one am very uncomfortable with underage folks being used in fashion shows and fashion editorials - I don't believe it's at all necessary and as a woman, I will remain un-moved looking at clothes on the body of a 14 year old. All I will be thinking is 'will someone please send this kid back to bloody school?' and 'where is your parent/guardian?'. That's another point: the parent/guardian has had to give permission to Henson, and to any photographer in fact, to take the photographs society than finds so questionable. So does that not mean that the supposed 'fault' lies solely with the adult who has given permission and placed their child in this position? This is another good article on the art/pornography dilemma.

"Taste of Arsenic" photographed by Sean Ellis and styled by Isabella Blow, for The Face, Ocotober 1996.

This is the editorial I've always wondered about with regards to this particular art argument. It has previously been posted here and here. The models were all aged 7-14 at the time of the shoot. Susie Bubble was of the opinion that the editorial would not have 'worked' with older models.... that the use of children was vital to creating the Victorian-esque 'Lord of the Flies' theme. I think that the use of underage models in fashion shows and fashion shoots, adds another level to the debate, because in this context they aren't just in a photograph - they are also a part of commodity culture.

I'm going to refrain from sharing my decisions on both Henson and this editorial, because I'm more interested in learning what you all think about this particularly interesting and necessary art discussion.

The Doll Cleans-up After a Flood.

Hi! I'm alive! So are all my neighbours! We've now gone three days and three nights without power. It's seriously hampering the clean-up effort. Today was the first day I could drive to another suburb and get supplies/charge appliances. Most of the people in my street and the streets around me have lost almost everything, but despite extreme warnings and predictions, the water did not reach my house.
The damage is hard to believe. I think everyone in Brisbane is getting around in a state of disbelief and shock; it's a bit hard to know where to start cleaning first - and apparently the mud and sludge is really quite poisonous as well, so extreme care has to be taken when attacking it... We will hopefully return to our scheduled programming here when I get power back, and when we can fix up what's left of the suburb.
Thankyou to all my sweet ones for their incessant contact while we've all been seperated and in the dark days - it's been very lovingly appreciated: Mel, Dan, Anna, Khali, Liz, Nik and Chris, Shay and Courto and Ross, Jan, Caro and Dearest!!! And the support and company from afar, so thankyou to Bobby and Erin also. xo

The Doll Tries to Survive a Flood.

- She talks on the phone, continuously; to people that are not near, and who dont understand that she's about to float.
- She speaks to a friend - for the first time; and wonders what he must think of her: talking from inside her watery grave. His voice echoes in her ears.
- She goes, always, to sit on the road with her neighbours; to sip warm beer and laugh, and agree heartily that 'it wont touch us!', while it touches, and takes, from all others around her.
- 'Someone' says, 'Why don't you come back to mine?', and she declines and goes back to lock the doors, and put Leonard Cohen on the record player, and pack a bag; and cry for all the stuff she has that can't save her, while she organises candles and charges her phone.
- It's not a game anymore; the water keeps rising.
- And Leonard says: "you think maybe you'll trust him, for he's touched your perfect body with his mind". But it maybe too late; for 'Susan' and for her.
- And it's a lonely watch; from the top floor; from the highest point; from the farthest that she can get from the water.
- And only Leonard sings out, from below, as the water rises.

Brisbane Floods.

Friday Night Lights.

I don't believe it was because of the week I've had, terrible as it was; it was still just a week. But I was gut-wrenched to walk the wrong way up the train tunnel to get to my platform tonight.
Coming from work, I stalked up the way and found the barriers to the platforms closed, for some reason. And as I adjusted my bag and looked around to see how to make the shortest way to the station I saw:
Women, old and young, in tiny skirts and all of them wobbling in too-high heels; poisoned with spray tans, tapping furiously on iphones. And boys doing the same, all out on the hunt.
And I've never felt so apart and displaced. Gets me down to see the games people play, the way they underestimate their potential all the time.

Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime.

I went to see my Naturopath, Ingrid, last Friday. It had been 3 years since my last visit with her.
To get to her house I have to drive through the backstreets of Buderim, then climb the hills surrounding Nambour to arrive, finally, at her house. It's the most beautiful prospect - facing out to the hinterland from her consulting room. It was pouring rain, an absolute deluge. I felt terrible. It had been one of those killer weeks where everything that you've been working on falls apart; personally and professionally. And I was scared that she would tell me that my poor body was unwell.
She has one of those machines that homeopaths use to test the individual organs in the body; the sinews, the bones, and the emotions. They don't lie.
I'm physically far more 'well' than I was last time she saw me - she was thrilled. I was gobsmacked. As we were talking, a few things came up. Here is an abbreviated dialogue:

INGRID: It would be so much easier if we could erase the bad memories. Just erase them, totally.
R: (Hot tears)
INGRID: It would be so much easier on the body.
R: (Spluttering) Have you seen the film 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind'?
INGRID: No (writing the name down)
R: One of my most beloved films - its about how much we stake on our memories, and how 'ill' we become trying to move away from them.... and then there's this machine that they use to erase people!! Like, whole people and events!! And these two people love eachother, but they hurt eachother so much and they have to run from their memories...
INGRID: That would be great if we could do it to our bodies. It would make healing so much easier.
R: (Spluttering, hiccups)... but I 'spose then, we wouldnt have any lives?
INGRID: ...Correct, darling... And your lungs and heart are very much improved at present...

"Here at Lacuna, we have perfected a 'safe', 'effective' technique for the erasure of troubling memories..."

The opening titles of this film are some of my favourite moments: what I believe is the most gorgeous performance ever from Jim Carrey - exploding with tears in his car, while the rain pours outside, and the dulcet tones of Beck remonstrate over him that 'Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometime'.
And through this beautiful creation we are rewarded with the knowledge that we can run and hide from our memories; but they are still there. They are always there. And resolution is all there is to be done with them.

Gigs and an outfit conundrum.

So.... tonight we are going to Powderfinger at the Riverstage. For those of you unfamiliar with Aussie music, they are a band who are really quite good and they are doing their farewell concert which has kind of become bigger than Ben Hur due to them adding a million concerts to their initial tour, so they will actually be playing gigs for like the next 5 months which makes for a little incongruity with the whole concept of 'farewell' concerts when they actually are not going away at all but staying around forever...
So, anyway. Last weekend we went to Cat Empire at the Tivoli which was epic and awesome, and which caused far less outfit stress because the Tiv is a pretty small venue, its dark, and everyone just charges around doing whatever they want anyway so you can wear innappropriate heels or a hat or whatever without incident.
Tonight's show is outdoor. It's supposed to rain. It could be cold or maybe hot depending how much dancing we do/where we end up in the field, it's on grass too, we have to catch a boat and then walk to get there, and there will be fireworks too (literally, it's Riverfire tonight). Why do fireworks impact an outfit? They just do, that's why... I'm sure I'm not the only one who takes fireworks into consideration when they are choosing which bangles to wear, am I?
It's going to be epic and fantastic, but knowing the posse we will almost definitely round the night off by walking home and its about 9km to do so...
But instead of doing anything about organising something I've plonked myself on the computer and am eating cruskits with vegemite. I really should find some rain ponchos too, but I've no idea where they might be stashed so I will leave that to sis when she gets home. I'm google stalking Sarah Sophie Flicker as usual and just found Karen Elson's film clip for 'Truth is in the Dirt' which has convinced me that I will wear my Victorian mourning outfit and possibly a veil. And a rain poncho.

Hair, Authenticity and the Definition of 'Doll'.

Dear Readers,
I'm so scatty tonight! It's ridiculous. I finished work and went straight out to uni, to continue working prior to my 8am meeting with my supervisor; but the witching-hour caught up with me at about 7.00pm, and all focus was well and truly lost to the night.
So, what is it about hair colour? It seems so freaking arbitrary to me. I mean, why should a different hair colour change anything much?
I suppose the recent post on the issue of 'Confidence' from my own, dear friend, has inspired this post of mine; a meditation on what maketh a woman.
I've been asked a few times, why I refer to myself, and my blog, with the very loaded (and engendered, and stereotypical) term of 'Doll'.
The word has become a function to me; it has the weight of memory, history, 'pop-culture', and my own very distinct defintion. Humour me whilst I elaborate....

1. My Dad, and numerous Boyfriends-Past,  have often called me 'Dolly' and/or 'Doll-Face'. I've pondered this so much, that I can no longer argue for the feminist repurcussions of the term, and I have long understood it to be (in my case), a term of endearment and love.

2. My favourite movie musical is 'Hello Dolly', with Barbara Streisand et el. To this day, it is the only thing I crave to watch when I am sick, or just feeling down.... watch it, and tell me if the opening doesnt make you realise that anything is possible.

3. I love dolls. I was a 'Barbie' child. I played for hours with my dolls. And my current use of the word is flavoured  by the many times I spent playing dress-ups, and 'imagining' 'Utopias' with my dolls, when my real life proved way too loud for me.

4. Lets cut to the flipping chase.... I've long had my own definition of 'Doll'.

To me, a 'Doll' is a woman whose innate authenticity has seen her wage the tummult of life; scars, sorrows, mis-guided loves, hopes, fears, sickness and spirituality;  in a body that has been gifted specifically for the journey she must make while she is here. I, quietly, and mindfully, refer to my dearest female friends as 'dolls'.
As far as blogging goes, I count this woman, Melissa, as a doll, and this woman, Pink Patent Mary Janes, as a doll... because they have been such dear friends to me in cyberspace. Also my darling Anna, and Mel; friends who are searching themselves, and who have so kindly extended their shoulders for me to cry upon, and have shared their 'time' and love with me.
A  'Doll'  is, in my mind; a woman who is authentically her own. A woman who lives her life fully; in the knowledge that we will all be accountable for what we have been, and what we have done, whilst we were here.
And... to get back to the essence of this... 'Confidence', to me, is changing your hair colour at whim, repeatedly, just cause you wanted to. We are here for such a short time; and, dammit; there are so many colours to get through yet:

This was 'me' - at 26...

And this is me, now. At 27. Many shades closer to 'me'; but with so many questions still to be answered. And with many, many different shades of hair still to go.

'Oh soul,

you worry too much.

You have seen your own strength.

You have seen your own beauty.

You have seen your golden wings.

Of anything less,

why do you worry?

You are in truth

the soul, of the soul, of the soul.'   

                                                    - Rumi.                   

This is gold.

This link is hilarious, and so close to home I think I was actually blushing and looking over my shoulder whilst reading it to see if someone was behind me nodding their head and mouthing "that's YOU Rianna! YOU do that!!"
Being an adult, having responsibilities, losing ones mind at the Quickie-Mart because you have to cook dinner for friends and the pressure to do so, brilliantly (when you've spent years eating salad for dinner EVERY NIGHT BECAUSE ITS EASY TO MAKE), has you pacing the aisles and asking the dude at the deli if he has something you can 'bake', WHICH YOU THEN BURN, GOING TO THE BANK, INVESTING, GOING TO WORK, WRITING A THESIS.....bla bla bla - just follow the link.

CLICK CLICK CLICK HERE.

The Undesirable Day From Hell.

Hmmmm. Yes. That would be correct if I was sitting in a room full of similarly glitter-faced, red-stockinged, deranged-looking folk, but as I'm here on my own, I must deduce that I'm the only one who fell down the rabbit hole today. Today? Who am I kidding? How about the majority of days of my life?
Today has been so entirely mind-snapping that I can scarcely believe I've almost made it home and into the bath without having one of those weird, frightened crying jags - you know the ones where you cry really hard, really quickly and do those little gaspy, hiccup things.
Awoke feeling odd; flustered from the start, and after consulting with sis, realized that my computer probably had a virus on it and needed to go to the doctor immediately. Lester, the doctor, has an office out towards Darra (suburb of Brisbane), and despite eventually making it there and back, I have no idea where the hell it is. It looked straightforward on the map. Like, literally in a straight line then off to the left, but after going halfway to flipping Ipswich I was forced to admit that I may have missed my exit. I was eventually pointed back onto the highway by a group of helpful council workers after I pulled over, got out of the car clutching my refedex and we all discussed most passionately the general 'strife' being caused to Doll's trying to get to Darra due to the highway upgrade. Government and council sufficiently condemned, and directions being clutched in my brain, I hopped back aboard Starship Enterprises and actually made it to Lester's where he told me to 'leave it with me'. That never, ever predicts good things.
I then scored every red light between Darra and uni (after paying an exorbitant amount for fuel used in my journey to and from Ipswich), where I had 2 coffees and wrote for almost 6 hours straight.
I'm going to attempt to get home and into bed without any other debacles, and then welcome the new day with all the bluff I can muster.
Goodnight, and good luck to all.

W H A T E V E R

Well, It's Friday. This week has been topsy-turvy and all over the place and awkward and weird at times - like when you're learning something new and for a while it feels really difficult to get it right.
We had a technical snafu at home this morning and as a result, my phone and internet connection have been disconnected. I've no idea when they are going to be reconnected. I'm at uni today, and will apparently have to work from here for as much of the weekend as possible now.
Not such a big deal, right? More like a little annoying prickle in your foot... It didn't prevent me from feeling quite surprised that someone other than me had done something really freaking stupid, and that surprise actually made me feel justified in a way that the whole situation would never have done, had it not involved my immediate family.
People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones though, and it wasn't long before another member of this dysfunctional crew reminded me that 9 times out of 10, it's me that stuffs things up.
Gosh dammit, families are just plain weird!!! Given that everyone's reality is completely subjective, how was it ever a good idea to lump people together in a group FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES?? And the fact that I come from a family whose closeness drives us each to distraction at times, just makes the process of un-meshing myself all the more complex. Our love for each other is absolute, yet we have the uncanny ability to really, really hurt eachother at times.
I was discussing this topic with a friend yesterday and she told me emphatically that all the most seminal studies have concluded that 95% of families are dysfunctional. 95%!! So why do I always feel like mine is the only one??
One thing I know about my family and our situation is this: it is possible to love completely, without complete understanding. And it takes work to keep a family together. It takes commitment to a cause that you often don't really believe in, that is often not one of your own choosing. It takes an abundance of forgiveness, and a sense of humour. A short memory is rare, but undeniably priceless if you do happen to have one. And apparently, my family and I are also the fittest freaks around, because we can run to the aid and protection of our clan if anything threatens one of our members. Unfortunately, most of the threats are from within.
Still. I wouldn't swap them. Even though I could quite happily whack a few of them with a saucepan.