i just want to be a mama and help everyone all day. somebody give me a column, plsss
GEORGIA O’KEEFFE INTERIORS - ABIQUIU, GHOST RANCH - NEW MEXICO
Je pleure de bonheur à la vue de l’intérieur du ghost ranch de la peintre américaine Georgia O’Keeffe.
Il n’est malheureusement pas possible de le visiter mais des tours sont organisés de l’extérieur (tristesse) avec des guides pour découvrir le lien qu’il y a entre le travail de O’Keeffe et son environnement direct.
Des crânes d’animaux, du mobilier 70’s, des tapis mexicains… je re-pleure.
UM ACTUALLY HOLY SHIT GEORGIA THIS IS THE MOST PERFECT THING EVER
(I wrote about my mother’s abusive friends for The Hairpin)
I heard some of you tried to Google me.
My mother tells me this sitting on the edge of my childhood bed. I’ve been gone from the home I grew up in for five years. I left to start my life. I’m back now to show my gratitude—like a spiritual praxis; there’s a cord that ties me to my family and their needs; I am a healer at my best.
As a kid I didn’t understand why my life had restrictions. Unlike so many of my friends, I had a list of terms and conditions governing my free spirit; a body of rules that determined my morality.
I am reminded of my responsibilities as I sit on my bed, facing my ink-stained whiteboard lined with posters of Nick Drake and The Strokes; a magnet from the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul; a pale and blistered Egon Schiele sketch. My mother is facing my wardrobe, where a silk print of a Bijin-ga(a beautiful person) hangs from my cupboard.
“Where did you get this?” she asks, all accusations.
“I got it for my sixth birthday from Thomas and his dad,” I tell her. Thomas’s dad was cool. He was the first person to tell me about this “rad new show called South Park.” I was seven years old. She doesn’t remember who Thomas is. I haven’t talked to Thomas in years.
Familial piety is a tenuous relationship in Asian households frequented by the constancy of malady and tension. I left my home for a myriad of unsexy reasons—mainly, I wanted to live a life for myself, one of my own design, removed from limitations, uninhibited by the glaring heat of my mother’s co-dependency—but also to get away from you, the aunties, the entity that wanted to Ziploc me into a tiny digestible package, removed from my peculiar ilk. According to all of you, and vicariously through my mother, I am not allowed to live my life in a way that is emotionally better for myself. The decisions I make are wrong; unfit for a woman, culturally deplorable.
I’ve been home for a month. Home is Australia, Sydney. My mom lives in a European style duplex, profuse with flowers: orchids; delilahs; succulents dripping over ivory-colored macramé holders and thrifted Mayan indigenous clay pots.
My upbringing was in an incongruent wasteland; my parents were cultured humans who, after emigrating from their respective homes, were suddenly caught in a diasporic world of gossip, faux refinement, and social cruelty. I was taught by my father; a political science professor; my hero—the man who introduced me to Noam Chomsky and Jared Diamond—that judgment was vile and energetically taxing. My mother, a painter; forever misunderstood, socially anxious, mentally ill—fell into the practice of internalizing meanness, vying for the attention of women she considered to be her like-minded sorority.
Immigrants often stick together like kids on a playground, rarely venturing outside of the confines in which society keeps them. Through desperation my mother sought your council, aunties. From my youth I was stuck oscillating between my father and his teachings—and my mother and her need to fit in.
Read the rest here.
Une aventure de Billy le Kid (Luc Moullet, 1971) vs. L’eden et après (Alain Robbe-Grillet, 1970)
"I’m fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in."
everything about this is first class