Anaïs Nin (b.1903) was a French-born Cuban bohemian and erotic writer. Her journals and short stories are part-truths, part-fictionalisations of her experiences in early 20th century New York. Her works Delta of Venus (1977), Little Birds (1979) and Auletris (2016) have become cornerstones of the feminist and female-erotic movements.
In her autobiographical short story, A Model (1979), Anaïs Nin retells the story of her sexual awakening. After moving to New York with her mother, Nin dropped out of high school and began working as a model for illustrators and artists. Spending her days posing for strangers, Nin explored the messy and fluid New York bohemian scene. All the while Nin privately lamented her virginity, longing to shed her ‘sheltered’ life and ‘over-delicate’ appearance.
Young and horny, Anaïs contemplates the collected fragments of her limited sexual experience. Experiences whirl around in her head: wetness between her legs after dry-humping on the beach with a boy her own age, passionate make-outs following dances. We are invited to witness, as if sitting with a classmate in the bathrooms at recess, her hormonal giggles and pops as she anticipates the excitement of finally doing it.
All the time, the shadow of her sexual fears dwells at eye line. Night-time run-ins with survivors of sexual assault haunt her daytime visits alone with male artists. Men that jovially jab at her boundaries, comment on her sexual experience – “you’re a virgin, aren’t you?” – and impose idealisations of her youth upon her. Not to mention bombarding her with unsolicited kisses, touches and flirtations. Nin’s anger at these intrusions swirls into a confused longing for them. She is not passive, not really, but she nevertheless feels the gravitational pull of this idealised self, still too young to distinguish between being conquered and desired.
It’s unnervingly relatable as a closeted boy growing up in the era of Grindr. Like Nin, I hated my baby face, inexperience, and sheltered life. I too, sought to overcorrect these shortcomings in the rooms of strangers, men who played upon a false belief of my own maturity, who I thought would show me how to be my authentic self. Men, who as I approach their age, I now strangle with angry words in the corners of my mind. But, in reading Nin, we can develop another story.
The beauty of Anaïs Nin is that, despite men’s best efforts, she is the hero of her awakening. She delights in the positive aspects of her encounters, relishes her pleasure, and then unsentimentally sheds the men she uses to achieve it, that “they now seemed like children to me.” In the end, A Model is not a story of a victim, but an adventurer. She becomes like Homer’s Odysseus, a hero enlightened by her experiences, emboldened by her survival, with the heads of her monsters left to rot in her wake. As fellow survivors of our sexual awakenings, we can smile and walk with her. Survivors of our hormones, fears and monsters.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 5 ‘Cum As You Are’
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
Comments Off on Peter Garrett: From the Old Library Lawns to the Australian Stage
Peter Garrett called in from his hotel in Cairns. Midnight Oil (or ‘The Oils’, as Peter endearingly calls them) had a show the next night. It was one stop on the band’s farewell tour showcasing their latest album, Resist. A few days earlier, he attended Burgmann College’s 50th Anniversary weekend as an alumnus of the college and the ANU. I got to speak to him about his journey from ANU lawns to the Australian (and beyond) stage, his thoughts on the post-COVID-19 live music scene, and the significance of the Oil’s penultimate show on October 1st taking place on our very own Fellows Oval.
Born and raised in Sydney, Peter decided to venture to the Bush Capital in 1971. Like many others reading this, he considered himself an “occasional [law] student”, as self-described in his memoir, Big Blue Sky. He would become the first bar manager of Le Chat Noir, an institution that runs in the Burgmann common room to this day. It was this era of his life where his musical journey took off and so did his love of a city where he would eventually spend a decade in Parliament.
“I began my music career in Canberra as a student, right where you are,” He tellsme, “Playing pretty whacked out not altogether inspiring sort of rock and blues with synthesiser overlays – which was something we were fiddling around with at the time and trying to make work.”
Known for his passion and intensity on everything from his iconic moves on stage to activism on issues of the environment to First Nations rights, Peter spoke fondly about the music scene of those early years at the ANU.
“One of the first shows I saw was on the old library lawns of the ANU when they opened it up for a bunch of bands who travelled from other places to come and play. Their names won’t mean anything to people now, but for me, as a young student, it was eye-opening and ear-opening to hear people play music in the Australian landscape with the Brindabellas on one side and Parliament House on the other… Ngunnawal and Ngambri land…”
These eye-opening experiences of live music would spark his appreciation and dedication to performance that he enjoys to this day. Following the COVID-19-induced hiatus of the arts industry over the past two years, The Oils headlined the 2022 return of Byron Bay Bluesfest in April. Asking him what the feeling of returning to the stage was like, he said:
“… I think that people had been confined like lab rats for so long that when they eventually got out into daylight, or sunlight, or gathered with lots of others to celebrate music and being together, the feeling was quite different. We’re ecstatic, as in the crowd gathering at a festival or a spiritual experience even.”
“There’s a myth in the modern era which derives from the cult of the individual and this notion that we’re all just single individuals reaching our own destiny by ascending a ladder or buying shiny goods or locating ourselves in a cool and desirable place. But, of course, that’s just a means of perpetuating an economic system, really. We’re much more communal. We’re still hunters and gatherers; we love to hunt and gather together, and we derive meaning not ultimately from things we end up throwing away but from memories, we collect and stories we tell one another, and the experiences that we share.”
I asked Peter whether this shared musical space lends itself to activism and overcoming collective action problems like climate change. He disagreed, “The two are not really connected particularly because some people do one and some people do the other. It’s just that in our case, we happened to find a way of sometimes doing them both… We just always have existed as a band of songwriters, musicians, and activists, and that’s the way that we are.”
As a man of many potential titles – musician, activist, politician – I asked whether there have been any new identities or activities he’s found himself inhabiting since leaving Federal Parliament in 2013.
“A rediscovery of the simple joy of expression without anything else to have to think about in the day. That’s been the most important thing for me, being in this fortunate position of being freed up to be back on stage with the other members of the Oils and to completely lose yourself in the sound and in the plain. I’m sort of having a second childhood really at this stage of my life, with lots of love.”
In attendance at Bluesfest was Peter’s former colleague, Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, colloquially known as DJ Albo. When asked about the importance of having a music fan in office, Peter said, “It’s very refreshing to have someone who’s connected enough with the culture of the country and is a music fan and celebrates Australian music, isn’t ashamed of it, and doesn’t have a cultural cringe and understands it some extent.”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt that my expectation is that the current government should deliver a decent cultural policy and support the music industry. Not for a handout, but for building foundations for people’s careers, particularly young artists’ future.”
Peter and the Oils have always put their money where their mouths are in helping Australians access the arts. In the late ’70s, the band went on strike after a promoter of Sydney Northern Beaches pub The Antler returned on a promise for reasonable ticket prices at their show. For their upcoming show at the ANU, student tickets are priced $60 lower than the standard price of $149.90
“We’ve always believed that what we’re [Midnight Oil] doing should be heard by as many people as possible, and people shouldn’t be prevented from hearing or seeing Midnight Oil simply because of their income. We’re always mindful of price. We’re price-setters, we always have been, and we never charge the maximum amount of money to, as it were, try and squeeze all the juice out of the lemon.”
“And of course, we know students are not big earners; they’re students, it goes without saying. They’ve probably got HECS debt before they’ve got anything else.”
The Oils’ latest album, Resist, addresses the biggest problem facing students: climate change and the consequences of environmental degradation. The album’s opening track, Rising Seas, begins with:
Every child, put down your toys
And come inside to sleep
We have to look you in the eye
And say, “We sold you cheap.”
Peter acknowledges that Baby Boomers, who have been complacent in good economic times, have “a lot to answer for”. I asked how a person from Generation Z should interpret Resist:
“It’s in the tradition of protest albums which are calls to action. Hopefully, people will hear and feel moved to act. We think that whilst it’s completely bewildering and anger-making that we’re still heating up the planet as though there are no long-term consequences, the fact is that the climate crisis will impact younger people who’ll be around longer than we will. It’s something to look upon with a great deal of dismay… The upcoming generation has a great deal of hard work to do, and we’ve given them a soundtrack that hopefully makes that hard work a bit more palatable.”
When speaking about the issues he cared about, or the city he called home for so many years, it felt as though Peter might still be a student. A certain youthfulness sprang from the phone in these moments in our conversation. His excitement for The Oils and love for being on stage with his bandmates resembled a musician at the peak of their prowess. Not one in the closing act of a career that has spanned decades. I finished by asking him what it meant for the band to be returning to Ngunnawal and Ngambri land for their penultimate show.
“It is, without exaggeration, a bit of an epochal moment in our small world, if you like. Because we started playing Canberra… To close the circle off by doing the last big open-air show at the ANU is going to be very special for me.”
Tickets are on sale now for Midnight Oil’s October 1st show on Fellows Oval. They will be accompanied by King Stingray, Emily Wurramara and Moaning Lisa.
Comments Off on Cinema, TikTok, OnlyFans: Is There a Female Gaze, and Do Women Even Want It?
The other week I rewatched Sofia Coppola’s second ever feature Lost in Translation (2003) and was completely taken aback by the film’s opening shot; a then-17-year-old Scarlett Johansson’s bum in sheer, pink underwear.
A lot has been said about this shot; that Coppola is actually appropriating and thus ‘reclaiming’ the male gaze that would otherwise objectify Johansson. Or, that Coppola included the shot purely for its aesthetic value and thought no deeper on the subject. Allegedly, the shot is meant to replicate and subvert the works of American photorealist John Cacere, who often painted semi-clothed women voyeuristically.
None of these explanations, however, absolve Coppola from potentially falling prey to the male gaze in this moment, which is perhaps unexpected from a director said to champion the very opposite.
For those who are unfamiliar, ‘the male gaze’ as a term was first used by British art critic John Berger (yes, a man) in 1972 as part of his analysis of female nudes in European paintings. In 1975, ‘male gaze’ was coined by British film critic Laura Mulvey and it became one of the theories informing feminist approaches to cinema studies. Essentially, if a film employs the male gaze, whether intentionally or not, it centers male perspectives and positions its female characters as objects of heterosexual male desire.
One could easily assume that the female gaze, therefore, is a direct reversal of the male gaze asserting the prominence of female characters and perspectives, all while objectifying men. In reality, the female gaze is exceptionally difficult to pin down and define. The male gaze is often subverted or parodied by female directors, but even that doesn’t constitute a female gaze. Some even argue that the female gaze exists in any film directed by a woman, inherently. Television writer, director and showrunner Joey Soloway gave their own insight as to how they understood the concept at the 2016 Toronto Film Festival. Soloway argued that ‘the female gaze is really about using the presence of a female perspective on screen to emphasize the story’s emotions and characters.’ Based on this one definition alone, perhaps Coppola’s voyeuristic opening shot in Lost in Translation can be forgiven, as the rest of the film fits Soloway’s description.
Despite how murky our understanding of the female gaze is, the concept still manages to draw critique, particularly for how its earliest proposed definitions only really pertain to a narrow, more privileged type of woman. In 2004, queer philosopher and theorist Judith Butler described the female gaze of the time as ‘a pervasive heterosexism in feminist theory’. Feminist scholar and activist bell hooks, rather than expanding directly upon the female gaze, instead coined the
‘oppositional gaze’ when writing about white feminism dominating feminist film theory. In short, the oppositional gaze describes the ways in which black people are depicted on screen as repressed, or commonly not at all. The theory is also an intersectional one, which looks at how black women in particular are represented in film due to being marginalised in multiple ways. Some people, like television critic Emily Nussbaum, believe that the objectifying nature of the male gaze is intrinsic to all our screen media traditions and describes the term as:
“The notion that the camera lens, which has been trained to ogle and dominate, can change, in female hands, launching a radical new aesthetic.”
Overall, the female gaze is largely still in development and subject to debate, and as a film student I’d be very hesitant to refer to it in my own theoretical and critical essays. Yet somehow, it has become a term that many have now heard and some are even adopting.
It’s not unusual for academic or professional jargon to make its way onto social media and be misappropriated entirely. We’ve seen it happen with ‘triggered’, ‘queerbaiting’ and various other terms, whose meanings become watered down and reductive. A few months ago, ‘female gaze’ underwent a similar phenomenon despite its definition in the film theory world being heavily contested and in development. An extra layer of ambiguity has been added to an already murky term upon entering the public consciousness, and it’s actually lowering our standards when it comes to representing women on screen.
A quick search of ‘female gaze’ on TikTok yields never-ending results that attach the term to specific types of men, fashion and makeup styles, songs, films, haircuts, photographs, the list goes on.
Interestingly, the female gaze on TikTok is more often than not expressed as an oppositional binary. One video posits that certain images of a female kpop star embody the male gaze, whilst other images of the very same celebrity embody the female gaze. This seems to be part of a wider trend also used to showcase peoples’ newly evolved senses of style. In this type of content, the main difference between the alleged male and female gazes seems to be dressing in a less-revealing way, and being more bold and artistic in presentation. Generally, the new dress senses revealed tend to be equivalent to their predecessors in terms of actual gender role subversion, but are just more up to date with current fashion trends.
In many ways, the female gaze on TikTok has become an aesthetic. One Tiktok creator shares how, as an adult, they decided to venture out of their comfort zone and ‘[go] for the female gaze look’. The look in question? A short, textured bob haircut with bangs. Many comments under the video criticise the creator for their bizarre use of the term. However, the video did still manage to garner over 400,000 likes, suggesting that many others understand ‘female gaze’ similarly.
All while the female gaze has been gaining traction, prominent TikTok personality Anna Paul (@anna..paull) has been on a steady rise, now having reached a new height of stardom where she releases her own merchandise and will soon tour the country to host meet and greets. Anna Paul is known for her bubbly demeanor and exciting vlogs showing her lavish lifestyle, which she openly credits to her success as an OnlyFans (OF) creator. I won’t lie, I do enjoy Anna Paul’s TikToks, however frivolous they may be, and really respect her commitment to spreading positivity. I also recall her once mentioning that the majority of her OF subscribers are women. There is no official source available that can confirm or deny this claim, but if what Anna Paul is saying is true, then there’s a chance she may have inadvertently stumbled into a variation of the female gaze on OFOnlyFans and capitalised on it.
This is a big claim, and is thus purely speculative, but it’s important to note that Anna Paul’s OF content is not explicitly queer, and it features either herself alone or with her boyfriend. Earlier this year, she did come out as bisexual, but this was even after she made it into the top 0.01 percent of all OF creators, so it doesn’t really explain why she appeals to women.
It’s amusing to think that a concept undefinable by academics and misappropriated by TikTok users could have a stronger case made for itself in an influencer’s self-made pornography. In saying this, however, it assumes that if the female gaze does exist, it’s something women would want to consume. Maybe Anna Paul has a predominantly female OF following without rejecting the male gaze?
One theory I’ve come up with is that in sharing so much of her life with the internet, those subscribed to Anna Paul’s OF feel a more personal, intimate connection when consuming her content. Furthermore, she begins to appear so humanised in their minds that it feels more ethical to watch her content than other forms of pornography. Perhaps this phenomenon, if it’s real, is more common among women than men.
I want to cast your mind back to the Joey Soloway quote I mentioned earlier:
The female gaze is really about using the presence of a female perspective on screen to emphasize the story’s emotions and characters.
Is this not what Anna Paul does? She vlogs her everyday from her perspective, and the content and tone of each video is entirely determined by how she feels and what she wants to show her audience. The content Anna Paul uploads to OF is flavoured by what people see in her TikToks and is almost inseparable from her own, female perspective.
I’m not so naive to think I’ve stumbled upon something big here. I’m a first-year film student, not a theorist or critic, and I don’t think it’s particularly new or illuminating to say that there are aspects of what could form a female gaze in almost all media produced by women, even pornography. I think my discussion of Anna Paul and my criticism of TikTok’s usage of ‘female gaze’ should raise a point of asking ourselves why we want to define the term in the first place. Is it a matter of purely aesthetics (à la TikTok trends), or do we want to liberate and advance female storytelling? How can we claim to be sick of the male gaze when we keep on consuming media that embodies it? Can we ever escape it? Clearly, I don’t have all the answers, but maybe they don’t come from rigorous analysis and academic debate. Maybe, if we pay a bit more
attention to what subconsciously attracts or entices us infilm, or even on OnlyFans, we will then know all.
Fiction is the cornerstone of reality. It’s trite and somewhat obvious to point out that the world is the way we think it is. But if you spend enough time with this truth, it will become too comfortable, too familiar. I had become quite comfortable within it myself. If you were to tell me five days and 12 hours ago that two of the most influential men in my life were in fact stories I invented, I probably would have said “Sorry, I’m running late to a Roald Dahl movie I’m watching with my Mum called To Olivia.” But, if you had told me this fact just two hours later, I probably would have stopped and listened.
The little role my Godfather played in my life counted for a lot. It was a birthday present. A book wrapped in puzzle-piece paper. George’s Marvellous Medicine by Roald Dahl. On my seventh birthday, I was able to read independently, and I decided that I liked it. Compared to corporate author H. I. Larry’s Zac Power, Dahl’s voice felt like it was respectful of its audience. It was tender and understanding, as though the nonsensical story was really the sort of thing grown-ups couldn’t understand. I proceeded to read everything he had ever written. And then I read it all again.
My ninth birthday party was Roald Dahl-themed. I know. Still the coolest party I’ve ever been to. My parents spent money they didn’t have to bring Dahl’s fiction into reality. My Dad has a degree in fine arts, which he used to recreate Blake’s illustrations. Somehow, he found time to do that in-between looking after four kids, studying for his third tertiary qualification, working two jobs, and being married to his one wife. My Mum invented and ran the games, she always brings an indefatigable spark of wonder into everything and everyone she touches. It was her idea to replace party bags with copies of Dahl’s books wrapped in brown paper with string.
Dahl’s melody was the song my childhood sang.
My favourite book was Danny the Champion of the World. Danny lives alone with his father; they fix cars together and live an altogether simple and fulfilling life. Danny believes his life can be improved only with his mother, who died during childbirth. Danny discovers a dark side to his father, an addiction to hunting. He uses his intelligence to invent a pheasant hunting strategy so endlessly humane and ruthlessly efficient as to end the moral dilemmas forever associated with the likes of Robin Hood.
I was desperately envious of Danny. I idolised my dad. If only I could spend time with him as Danny got with his dad. I borrowed an engineering book from the library when I was 10 so that I could talk to my dad about cars. I just assumed that he liked cars, because that’s the sort of thing manly men like him liked. I studied that book and bided my time to flex my newfound automobile-relevant knowledge. I remember sucking up the courage to tap him on the shoulder and pose:
“So…what do you think of split differential systems? Pretty cool right?”
He responded:
“…yep.”
Dad wasn’t really a car guy. He does like Troop Carriers though.
Dahl’s voice guided me along a path to the classics. A path which led me to Sherlock Holmes, to my first celebrity crush Jane Eyre (Yes. My first celebrity crush was the fictional character, Jane Eyre. The very same Jane Eyre referred to as ‘plain’ ‘unattractive’ and ‘ill-humoured.’ I don’t know what I saw in her), to Samuel Beckett, Pink Floyd and the Beatles, Thomas Hobbes, Baudrillard, and to the ANU. The parts of me that love reading and writing, the parts of me which led me to write these words sometimes feel like they aren’t mine. I feel like I inherited these from him. I brought all my Roald Dahl books to Canberra. When I see the spines of his work looking down on me from my bookshelf, I feel like my essays aren’t really mine either.
A part of me is indisputably Roald Dahl. But…for all my discipleship I didn’t really know him. I didn’t know that his daughter died of measles before he published Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I didn’t know that his wife was an actor. I didn’t know that he was an alcoholic. I didn’t know that he was exceptionally good at making breakfast. In fact, these details of his life rudely found themselves in my head only recently.
To Olivia is a film about Roald and his wife coming to terms with the untimely demise of their eldest daughter. Well, that’s the plot. The film is really about looking at our storytellers as well as listening to them. That’s the part that I didn’t like. It felt offensive to see Dahl drunkenly yell at his wife and daughter. It was hurtful to see him sprawled on his bed. And disappointing to see him fail to love and care for the people he was supposed to provide for. His voice, the one I saw berate his wife and child, was the voice I had allowed so innocently into my life. The man I saw on screen seemed to be entirely distinct from the man who authored my childhood.
I was the sort of person who read books – you know the type. I was excluded, by my own apprehensions, from every team sport I ever tried. But my dad also read many books, he recommended many of the influential works in my life that I listed above. In all honesty, I don’t really know why a split differential system is cool…and if someone were to ask me if it was cool, I would probably just say ‘…yep’ as well. Falsely, I assumed that my dad was someone alien to me. But when Dahl was exposed as alien, I was better able to appreciate the similarities I had failed to see growing up.
I have always struggled with sleep. I like thinking and action too much to find rest fulfilling. I started sleeping easier during the heights of puberty, but as I mature, I feel the dregs of familiar nocturnalism returning. We were living in Wagga Wagga at the time. The summer nights were sticky and hot. You would sleep without a shirt to stay cool, and the sheets would cling to your skin. It was probably around one or two in the morning. Insects hummed outside in the way that sounds like rain.
I crept out of my room into the hallway. The L.E.D. kitchen light was on. Usually, that meant Mum and Dad were still awake, a signal to go back to bed. I didn’t go back to bed. Maybe it was to avoid the boredom of my bedroom ceiling, maybe it was because I found the silence disquieting; I don’t know what led me to the edge of that room. When I peaked in, I saw my dad hunched over the kitchen table. He was wearing a white singlet and shorts. His face was buried in his arms. I noticed the way the muscles in his shoulders flexed as they gently shook. I think he was crying.
I am now the same age my dad was when he met my mum. The pressures he bore on those shoulders are becoming more intelligible to me. I am becoming a man who, like his father at this age, may one day play the role of fatherhood. Fathers are born, dads are made. Any man can be a father. But dads are made by men possessing dignity, responsibility, and tender love. Dads can also be made by little boys who feel unalterably alone amongst a sea of people noticeably different from them. One day I may need to make a dad out of myself too.
A lot of stories go into making a person. I used to have this idea that fiction lived on the peripheral vision of reality. Now I think that reality is made of fiction. My dad was a story I told myself. Roald Dahl was a story I told myself. Deep down I know that I was the author of their story. When I felt alone, I invented a dad out of a disembodied name on the front of my favourite book. If only I knew I didn’t need another one. This pretty average film forced me to see as fiction that which I had written to be reality. Maybe that takes it from 5/10 to 6.5/10.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 4 ‘Alien’
Think your name would look good in print? Woroni is always open for submissions. Email write@woroni.com.au with a pitch or draft. You can find more info on submitting here.
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Letters to the Editor
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It’s been two years since current indie It Girl, Phoebe Bridgers released her second studio album Punisher. It’s also been two years since I had a breakdown in the parking lot of a Service NSW building (think Access Canberra) after failing my drivers’ test for the second time. No, these two occasions weren’t related. But a large concrete parking lot would be the perfect space to sit and listen to the harrowing screeches of I Know The End.
Punisher is about finding solace during the apocalyptic and the mundane. During a natural disaster or moving into college. During an alien invasion or attending Sunday mass. During the end of the world or being overstimulated by clearance sale signs in a shopping centre. According to Bridgers, these phenomena are one and the same. On Punisher’s second birthday, I think it’s important to revisit several tracks from the album.
i.
In Garden Song, Bridgers affirms universal truths of millennial culture. She sings of moving away from a hostile hometown; “I grew up here, till it all went up in flames / Except the notches in the door frame” and attempting to navigate a complicated college experience; “Then it’s a dorm room, like a hedge maze.” These chapters are difficult. High school cliques, academic pressures, and friends and family passing away leave you bruised. Flashbacks of embarrassing O-Week activities keep you humbled. But Bridgers sings “Everything’s growing in our garden / You don’t have to know that it’s haunted” stressing that reason, and beauty, and peace, can be cultivated from all the violence. We have the ability to transform our trauma into something or someone better.
ii.
In Chinese Satellite, Bridgers attempts to find meaning in the world. She sings “I want to believe / Instead, I look at the sky and I feel nothing.” We hear the yearning, longing and desperation in her voice. She wants to buy into aliens or religion. She wants to have these beliefs handed to her on fringe corners of the internet or by a local pastor. It would be comforting to know that there’s a constant, stronger presence. In a 2020 interview, Bridgers reveals “If I’m being honest, this song is about turning 11 and not getting a letter from Hogwarts, just realising that nobody’s going to save me from my life.” I too want to believe. I want to believe that the cost of living will go down, that governments will commit to greater climate action, and that everything will be okay in the end. That a grey alien or a God has everything planned out. Bridgers concludes Chinese Satellite singing “I want to believe / That if I go outside I’ll see a tractor beam / Coming to take me to where I’m from / I want to go home” and I just know that by home she is referring to the innocence and naivety of early childhood. Before we understood all the pressures of contemporary society.
iii.
In Kyoto, Bridgers learns to live with those pressures of contemporary society. She sings “I’ve been driving out to the suburbs / To park at the Goodwill / And stare at the chemtrails / With my little brother.” She sits in a large concrete parking lot (me and her are so similar!) and considers her existence. She acknowledges that she can’t change some social and political circumstances. If our tiny little voices can’t completely overhaul the system, should we simply attempt to thrift at second-hand stores, slowly pressure governments, and enjoy time with friends and family instead? Later, on the title-track Punisher, Bridgers laments “The drugstores are open all night”. In a 2018 diary entry, Bridgers writes “Before shows, I often go for a walk. Nine times out of ten, if I see a CVS, I will go in, and nine times out of ten I will buy nothing.” Bridgers may as well find some comfort in the neon storefront lights of all night pharmacies or the colourful, laden shelves inside.
iv.
In I Know The End, Bridgers describes the end of the world. She sings of the skaters, and surfers, and other fringe groups who have all but disappeared; “Not even the burnouts are out here anymore” and little moments spent with friends and family as time all but runs out; “Out in the park, we watch the sunset / Talking on a rusty swing set.” This line evokes images of people huddled together as an asteroid or planet collides with Earth. Bridgers doesn’t care that, “Over the coast, everyone’s convinced / It’s a government drone or an alien spaceship.” No, she is “Driving out into the sun / [Letting] the ultraviolet cover [her] up”. She completely embraces the intense, raging fire. “The end is near.” “The end is here”. It is both. Approaching and surrounding. On the horizon and at the shores. We hear people screaming. We hear cymbals and horns and electric guitars. And then we hear Bridgers join in, violently screaming over the top of everyone else, fully surrendering herself, and allowing herself to feel some sort of catharsis in all the chaos.
The cover art of Punisher shows Bridgers dressed in her iconic skeleton suit staring up at a mysterious red glow in the night sky. We are left guessing the source of the light. Is it the lights of a nearby shopping centre? Is it a government drone? Is it an alien spaceship? According to Bridgers, there’s not much of a difference anyway.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 4 ‘Alien’
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Letters to the Editor
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While balaclavas made their big statement during the London winter, Australia hasn’t quite followed suit. In terms of the hottest winter accessories, we’ve made our bold statement with the infamous puffer jacket. With its equal share of lovers and haters, the return of the puffer is an early signal that winter has arrived. For some, it’s a closet staple, a ride-or-die for windy storms and chilly nights out. But for others, it’s further evidence of the capital’s monotony. On campus, the likeness of little Michelin men walking across Kambri lawns has prompted a short investigation into the puffer: overrated winter essential or dependable cold-proof layer?
Whether you’re Team Kathmandu or North Face, there is no denying puffer jackets’ chokehold on the Australian psyche. The puffer was originally an Australian invention that has been exported internationally. The humble origins of this insulating jacket are credited to George Finch. An intelligent chemist and avid mountaineer, Finch invented the first puffer jacket in 1922 during a climbing expedition up Mount Everest. Finch’s ‘eiderdown coat’ was durable, compact, lightweight, and successful at cutting back against high wind speeds. Today, these are the selling features of the puffer.
As seen on campus, the puffer is a smart choice for individuals who hate being caught in the cold. Compared to its capital neighbours, Melbourne and Sydney, Canberra’s winters can get exceptionally chilly and dry. Canberra is an in-land city and doesn’t have the coast to regulate its temperature. In scientific terms, water has a higher heat capacity than land, meaning its surface area requires more energy to heat and cool. As a result, coastal regions experience milder temperatures compared to inland climates. While the puffer is the obvious choice for those valuing practicality and comfort, wearers shouldn’t have to compromise on style. In fact, this winter, we see a lot more variety in terms of shape, cut and colour of the puffer jacket. From colourful metallic coated puffers to floor-length down-coats, outerwear doesn’t have to look monotonous. Changing up and manipulating the shape of the puffer is the surest way to stay on trend whilst maximising warmth.
Cropped puffers have been a fan favourite for those who want to balance the practicality of a quilted down jacket but without the overbearing volume of the puffer stitching. The shorter length of the jacket ensures that the wearer’s figure is not swallowed by shadows and padding but is instead given a flattering outline. For those erring away from this more youthful and boxier fit, a full-length winter puffer is a more sophisticated outerwear piece that doubles well both in and outside class. Often sported in more neutral palettes, this puffer-style parka is an equally flattering choice. Its streamlined silhouette gives an elongated yet sleek contour to the body.
In terms of colour, it’s not uncommon to see puffers in red Cheeto or butter yellow as you walk across campus. It seems that post-lockdown wardrobes are brimming with energy and flamboyance. Opting for a bolder colourway has been a popular choice for many students, particularly at the apex of winter. While Finch was originally mocked for the puffer’s shape and initial parakeet green shade, today, his puffer would be heralded as a novel and funky piece of outerwear. Given the jacket’s versatility, it’s clear that the rise of the puffer is no faux pas.
At midday, on the 2nd of July, Garema Place was transformed into an amphitheatre.
A crowd of people had overflowed the square and arranged themselves to stand at attention to the amplified voice of protest – a marquee fitted with a PA system. The protesting assembly declared their intentions in the form of a forest of picket signs, disgusted by the overturn of Roe v. Wade. For the past fifty years the US Supreme Court’s landmark case has protected an individual’s right to choose.
The messages were varied in tone, but united in meaning; the cuttingly blunt and the mockingly witty.
“Abortion = Healthcare!” “Girls just want to have fundamental human rights!”
Approaching this scene, I was, for the first time, hit with the scale of the gathering. I wondered aloud who the intended audience of the demonstration was.
Surely, we weren’t seeking the attention of the offending American judiciary? Nor was our national government likely to be moved. Even supposing we did sway the heart of some MP, or an ACT Minister, what exactly did we expect them to do about the erosion of bodily autonomy in a country half-way around the world?
One of my companions knocked me out of my cynicism. She pointed out a pair of young girls, not older than five or six, accompanying their mother at the rally. One held a twig with a sheet of A4 paper taped to the end – a picket sign in miniature.
“There’s your audience.”
…
Packed into the square – steps and tables standing in for bleachers – we listened to a series of speeches. Topics ranged from the specific and horrific consequences of anti-abortion legislation, to the details of the Roe v. Wade decision, and strong calls for more radical and progressive reform in our own government. The style of the speakers also varied. The event saw touching personal storytelling, cautious optimism from veteran activists and firebrand oratory from the socialist contingent; all serving to unite and ignite the crowd with a potent mixture of outrage and hope.
At the close of the speeches, from somewhere within the audience, a drum started beating. We followed it, and our small armada of signs marched through Civic Square, the Legislative Assembly and the shopping centre. Loosely escorted by police, alternatively stoic and professional or enthusiastically supportive, we marched on the road. The slight sense of trespass and the disrupted traffic only added to our sense of importance and unity.
As the task of calling “What do we want?” and “When do we want it?” passed through the crowd like a baton, the accompanying “Abortion Rights!” and “Now!” echoed off the surrounding buildings; my mind turned again to who this was all for.
A week later, I don’t remember much of the speeches, nor do I remember those who gave them. What I do remember is their oratory skills and genuine passion for the cause. What I remember is the crowd. I remember when the speakers brought up some shameful statistics. I remember being appalled. And those around me shared my sentiment. When a story of strength or some progressive proposal was forwarded, I remember cheering – along with everybody else. I remember the beating of the drum, a bass note for our cries of support and denouncement.
In this way, by the fluctuations of hope and outrage, the consistency of our agreement, and the sense of group disobedience the assembly was turned from a collection of strangers to a unit with purpose. Group mentality, good versus evil, us and them; they’re old tricks, but undeniably effective.
…
A protest is a tool – like a crowbar or a chisel. It’s an instrument that works to effect change on a social system and its effectiveness, like any tool, depends both on the force generated by it, and the precision with which it is wielded. The elements that give a protest its force, how it generates and focuses the energy of its participants, are well studied, widely practiced, tried-and-true. But the matter of when and where to apply that energy, and who best to bring that force, these are open questions.
This is a solidarity march. In solidarity with a series of protests across the country – part of a larger demonstration as a warning to our own government. But this march is also for us, the marchers; in solidarity with one another. By gathering, marching, listening to speeches and making signs we reaffirm each other’s belief that reproductive rights are human rights, and that those rights are worth defending. We are all, in some way, those young girls; and we teach one another what their mother is teaching them – when our rights, our freedoms, and the principles we believe in come under attack, this is what we do.
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Letters to the Editor
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I have always assumed learning a foreign language would only deepen my knowledge and appreciation of my Muttersprache, English. But learning German has made me lose my unwavering affinity for my mother tongue. What was once my unfaltering devotion to the English language has quickly transitioned into a feeling of being more and more alienated from my own native language.
I have struggled to communicate and even comprehend my own alterity with the English language. It feels like such a personal relationship—a three-way relationship between what I feel, the English thinking part of my brain, and the part that thinks in German. Expressing my feelings out loud is difficult enough, let alone being restricted on every linguistic level of the language. How could I possibly put into words the feeling of not having words? Or having the words, just not in a language that the listener will understand.
I have found a lot of solace since I discovered a multilingual Japanese-German author named Yōko Tawada. Tawada writes frequently about her changing relationships with language and the multifactor of senses that make up words and sounds. Tawada has spoken about being able to physically taste words, even the words that linger in the air remaining unsaid. And only since learning a foreign language have I experienced this.
When I speak English, I occasionally feel a German word that balances on the tip of my tongue. It’s not quite a word, but rather a feeling, a sense, an emotion. The feeling weighs down my tongue as if to make its presence known. I can taste it too—taste the heaviness of the feeling, and just like this English has forced a feeling to stay trapped inside my mouth. I could try futilely grasping at English words, creating strings of disjointed phrases. Yet there is always an element that is completely lost in translation. No matter how many English words I try to use, there is always a part of the feeling that stays trapped in my mouth. (Let alone the pain of having to use clunky phrases in comparison to the succinctness of a single German word!). So instead of doing the feeling injustice, I leave it unspoken. But I can still feel the weight and the taste of this unspoken emotion filling up space within me.
The irony of this is not lost on me. English is my own mother tongue, yet on that same tongue sits unspoken feelings I cannot express in English.
In her writing, Tawada uses a made-up word: Sprachmutter. And the beauty of the concept of Sprachmutter is that it embodies everything it encompasses. It would be a disservice to the feeling of Sprachmutter to attempt to translate it, but my interpretation of it is as the opposite of the word mother tongue. Sprachmutter is like a quasi-linguistic mother—a medium by which one learns not just language, but perspective and thought. For me, my Sprachmutter is the German language.
Armed with an alphabet of 26 letters, 3 umlauts and 1 eszett, German has enabled me to think differently to the way I do in English. My Sprachmutter has gifted me new perceptions of the world around me, and not just perceptions driven by language.
But the caveat of my Sprachmutter is that it’s given me an ever-foreboding sense of entrapment in my own mother tongue. Because if I can’t express my true, whole self in my native language, how can it remain my mother tongue?
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 4 ‘Alien’
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Letters to the Editor
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When someone asks, “who are you?”, do we ever really have an answer? Whenever someone asks us this seemingly simple question, or any version of it, we cling to what we know.
“Tell us about yourself” is a question that often prompts us to think about who we are. We respond with, “I am a student at xx” or “I am an Officer at yy.” We define who we are with the weight of an institution and we allow that to speak for us. By adding that label, we have added something to our introduction that takes away the need to define who we are. Over time, we prepare a rehearsed definition of who we are – with labels and qualifications that speak for us. So that when we are prompted, we have an answer.
Because as for who we really are, do we ever really know the answer to that question?
I would argue both yes and no – because we can never really have one stable answer. Who you are is constantly changing, as both you and your environment evolve. Questions that may seem quite fundamental, such as “are you a good human being?” may be yes at one given point in time, and no at another.
Sometimes we may not know who we are, or who our real selves are, and sometimes we do. We might feel more comfortable accepting who we think is the real us in some circumstance or in front of a certain person, but not in another setting. Because being around different people also brings out different versions of us.
Occasionally we realise there are a few versions of us, and that further confounds our ability to be sure of who we are. But that’s normal, isn’t it? To change, to adapt to our surroundings like a chameleon. To be the version of ourselves that makes the most sense in context. That is how we grow, evolve and develop ourselves.
The words we also use when describing ourselves are powerful. They bring with them certain preconceived notions. If I say I am a dancer, someone might assume that I’m flexible, or disciplined or obnoxious, depending on their experiences with, and the wider public perception of, the word ‘dancer’. This is scary, because nobody wants to be associated with negative qualities that they may or may not possess – even if they are solely based on the biases of others. After all, when we introduce ourselves with a few words, those words are what people often remember.
“Oh hey, you’re the Frank Ocean enthusiast from ANU right?”
Labels are scary. A label like ANU, which can be used for thousands of students, might not identify and categorise as specifically as our taste in music. So, we avoid such specifics when introducing ourselves, and stick to the less memorable labels. Anything that can be generic and won’t make us stick out like a sore thumb is preferable.
But what we don’t realise is just how institutions give our identity meaning. We wield the same power over words. I may call myself a dancer, but maybe a professional dancer may not consider me one. Even I am apprehensive of calling myself one, because while it is something I enjoy, it is not something I pursue professionally. We as humans have a lot of power in defining what words mean. Language, labels and words all naturally evolve to adopt different meanings. So, we shouldn’t be as afraid of embracing that power.
Maybe we do know who we are, and deep down it is who we think we are that guides what we do. But we’re afraid to accept it. Accepting who we are at one point, also means accepting that we’ve changed at another. Hence, we cling to the familiar, because who we really are, is to be confirmed.
Originally published in Woroni Vol. 72 Issue 3 ‘Consumed’
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Comments Off on Abuse Isn’t Sexy: the Romanticisation of Domestic Violence in Literature
Spoilers for After by Anna Todd and It Ends with Us by Colleen Hoover.
As a young reader, I am constantly irked by the publication of novels promoting abuse. Especially when those novels are marketed as romances and published within the young adult genre. These books lead to a skewed and inaccurate representation of healthy relationships for impressionable young girls. Despite the devastating impact that this foreseeably has, publishers and authors disregard it for money; where it is more economically desirable to publish a trashy romance with sub-par sex scenes and dramatic conflict, than one that truly explores the innate complexities of young love.
Anna Todd’s After is a prime depiction of the romanticisation of emotional abuse.
Putting aside the fact that it’s horrible writing makes it a crime against literature, After is riddled with toxic, emotionally abusive characters. The male protagonist, Hardin Scott, is a typical ‘bad boy.’ Yet, the female protagonist, Tessa, convinces herself that she can be the one to change him.
Hardin is emotionally absent. He has constant mood swings, lashes out, gets into fights, and throws temper tantrums. He has the emotional maturity of a five-year-old. The entirety of the novel is a never-ending cycle of Tessa and Hardin fighting and reconciling. It was exhausting to read.
Tessa isn’t some wonderful, doe-eyed, innocent girl either. Ignoring the fact that she is rude, judgemental, jealous, and constantly slut-shames other women, Tessa, multiple times throughout the novel, considers slapping Hardin when he annoys her.
This is not acceptable behaviour.
Their relationship reaches a new height of toxicity at the end of the novel when it is revealed that Hardin made a bet with his friends that he could take Tessa’s virginity. He even keeps the soiled bed sheets and the used condom as proof. This brings us into the murky realm of consent and coercion and just leaves you feeling disgusted.
And while some might argue that Tessa and Hardin actually break up at the end of After, or how Todd framed it in this Refinery 29 article, Hardin’s “not supposed to be a good example for a boyfriend”, Hardin and Tessa do end up together in subsequent books. Now, admittedly, I have not read the rest of the book series. In fact, I refuse to because frankly After is the worst book that I have ever read. But, from research that I have conducted and from the movies (yes, there are movies made of this garbage story), Hardin does not change.
Millions of young girls have read these books and watched the movies and a vast amount of them would genuinely want to be in a relationship with Hardin. Why? Because he’s hot.
This is evidenced by reader reviews obtained from Goodreads:
“Hardin…is everything I look for in a guy. Tough exterior but a gentle side for the girl he loves. The way he cares about Tessa like she’s the centre of his universe had me weeping like a child. Add on the English accent just gets you swooning!”
“Hardin was a manipulative (but sexy) character…I loved him.”
The fact of the matter is that emotional abuse is easily excusable because the scars are not visible. Sadly, physical abuse within literature is often forgiven by readers as well, as proven by Colleen Hoover’s, It Ends with Us.
This novel is marketed as a romance. The blurb is misleading, as it alludes to a love triangle and promises “an unforgettable tale of love that comes at the ultimate price.” However, it is apparent once having read the novel that Hoover was attempting to demonstrate the intergenerational effect of domestic violence. This calls into question marketing tactics. Why must a story on domestic violence be advertised as a romance? Because romance sells, or do publishers truly believe this is a love story?
And what I find even more concerning is that on TikTok, comments upon comments can be found of young girls hoping that the protagonist had ended up with her abuser.
“i really wanted lily and ryle together I don’t know if I’m wrong but I felt so bad for ryle at the end”
“he was never a bad person”
“I’m sorry but I love Ryle”
As a user quite succinctly summed up on Goodreads: “This isn’t a romance but half of booktok are not ready for that conversation.”
In It Ends with Us, the male antagonist, Ryle (what is it with abusive men and shitty names?), physically assaults the female protagonist, Lily, on three distinct occasions.
He shoves her with such force that she gets a black eye. He then proceeds to lie about the cause of Lily’s injury to his sister, claiming that she slipped. The second time, he pushes Lily down the stairs. When confronted by that fact, he attempts to gaslight her and says, “you fell.” This time, Lily doesn’t immediately excuse his behaviour. Their relationship finally dismantles after a third occasion where Ryle attempts to rape her. I must add that there is some uncertainty in this “attempted rape” claim. Lily insists that he didn’t proceed with the rape and refuses to take a rape test when taken to the hospital, yet the novel is written from her perspective, and during the incident, the reader witnesses her losing consciousness (due to her injuries) whilst Ryle kisses her. When she awakens, she notes that “he’s no longer fully on top of me.” This opens the possibility that Ryle went through with the rape.
Ryle also emotionally manipulates Lily. Immediately after the first incident, he declares his love for Lily for the first time. After the second incident, he reveals a traumatic tragedy from his childhood, where he accidentally killed his brother with a gun. This convinces Lily to stay in the relationship and they come up with an obviously flawed solution to his anger issues: “when you’re upset, just walk away. And I’ll walk away.”
Ryle’s childhood trauma plays a big role in the justification that some readers have for his behaviour. This mindset is alarming. Trauma may explain why an individual behaves in a certain manner, but we can in no way use it to excuse the immeasurable pain and suffering of domestic violence victims.
Ryle says quite glaringly in the first chapter of the novel, “there is no such thing as bad people. We’re all just people who sometimes do bad things.” I don’t necessarily agree with this. We all have autonomy over our actions, and if someone consciously and constantly chooses to commit wrongs like Ryle’s, they are a bad person.
Moreover, after leaving Ryle following the third incident, Lily asserts that “sometimes the reason women go back [to abusive partners] is simply because they’re in love”. I find that comment deranged. Domestic violence is so much more complicated. It comprises physical violence, emotional abuse, coercive control, financial abuse, isolation, manipulation, and more. Often, victims are left completely reliant on their abuser, making it impossible for them to leave. Of course, every victim’s experience is different, but to have such a flimsy explanation for returning to an abusive relationship is a damaging message.
Overall, sympathy towards Ryle is unwarranted. The only consequence he suffers is the breakdown of his relationship with Lily. He is still able to see his daughter, as it is quite trivially insinuated that he would never hurt her. He also does not endure any legal ramifications or professional setbacks for his undoubtedly criminal behaviour.
But as evidenced by the pity some had for him, if you are a handsome, charismatic male character in fiction, you can get away with anything. Though I must add, this only really applies to white men. The same flexibility is not provided to men of other races, who are more easily dismissed into the “toxic” category due to racially insensitive stereotypes.
Therefore, through the publication of such “romances,” girls are taught that this behaviour is a demonstration of a healthy, happy relationship that should be sought out.
I believe that authors and publishing houses have the moral obligation to ensure that the content within published works is not harmful to young people, especially young girls, whose perceptions of reality and romance may be warped into something resembling abuse.
There is nothing wrong with writing a novel for the purpose of intentionally demonstrating an abusive relationship and the horrific effects that it can have, as Hoover has attempted to do. But writing a book and painting a relationship as romantic when it is in fact abusive, and then putting it up on a pedestal as a happily ever after, as something that men and women alike should aspire for – that is dangerous.
I can only hope that with the social change around women’s rights, rape culture, and domestic violence in recent years, the publishing industry will consider the lifelong impact of vituperative romances on young girls, and place that over the profit margins brought about by cringy sex scenes.
My only advice to fellow readers is to always be wary. So, if you happen to meet a brooding British 19-year-old boy who throws tantrums like a toddler, run far, far away.