This summer was supposed to be all about sin. I wanted to explore how one culture could perceive a certain trait as a weakness, and another culture could take it and turn it into a strength. The first thread was the language of blues women and their pride and satisfaction in being "evil." Most people wouldn't want such a reputation. But, in my world, "evil" means not only strength and power, but the willingness to use that strength. How wicked you were depended on how much you acknowledged your dirty work.
There once was a girl,
Who had a little curl,
Right in the middle
of her forehead.
When she was good,
She was very, very good.
But when she was bad,
She was evil incarnate.
Guess who? My plan was to stage scenes illustrating the split between those who own their sin and those who shun their darkness. I spent a lovely afternoon in the library discovering ideas that could influence my pattern. My favorite of the day was "Self-knowledge for anyone means knowledge of sin." Aaah. I'm fairly sure I lifted that from an amateur web page that earnestly contemplates sins and virtues, but I cannot cite the source. While surrounded by Dante, C.S. Lewis, and fascinating symbols, I jotted down my own thought: "The audacity of creating your own narrative when the threads of fate do not support that weft. Cutting these threads & starting anew."
I was reminded of how I would be told "Sleeping Beauty" twice. The first telling would follow the traditional story: king and queen have baby, throw party, don't invite the "evil" fairy, bad fairy curses baby, curiosity makes baby sleep for eons until handsome boy kisses her on cheek. Instead of wrapping up the story with "And they lived happily every after...," my lesson included the bridge, "That's how white people do it. Now, this is how black folks do it." And instructions on how to rule the world would follow. I thought images of these dual stories/tellings would be good bread to support my peanut butter-and-jelly project of sin.
But my duelling fairy tales intrigued me more and more. So, my summer is less about sin and more about "making." I'm constructing the first fairy tale using photo montage--my materials are commercial images lifted from magazines, websites, and my own photo library. They're easily recognizable and usually whole, intact. By that, I mean you shouldn't be able to see the seams. You recognize the choice, but you don't see the craft. (Example: When a person walking down the street is wearing Abercrombie & Fitch from head-to-toe, you recognize their choice to be identified with what that brand means. But, you don't dwell on how their look was constructed because it was appropriated from a catalogue or mannequin. When you see a person who mixes and matches seemingly disparate clothing, you wonder how they did it and how did they know to do it. Or, at least I do.)
My second fairy tale is all about exposing the seaming and not tucking away the knots. The common thread between the two tales is the "evil" fairy who I have named Baba La-La. She's a black hen with an afro. She's got a lion's booty and ostrich gams. I'm building her dwelling that appears in the first fairy tale. It's a two-dimensional (more often than not) home to fit the flat world of the traditional story. But, as she's Baba La-La, it's hard to keep this witchy hen completely horizontal and depressed. More images from her house and the worlds she inhabits will be posted to this blog. As well as more earnest contemplations about the loveliness of sin.
I was reminded of how I would be told "Sleeping Beauty" twice. The first telling would follow the traditional story: king and queen have baby, throw party, don't invite the "evil" fairy, bad fairy curses baby, curiosity makes baby sleep for eons until handsome boy kisses her on cheek. Instead of wrapping up the story with "And they lived happily every after...," my lesson included the bridge, "That's how white people do it. Now, this is how black folks do it." And instructions on how to rule the world would follow. I thought images of these dual stories/tellings would be good bread to support my peanut butter-and-jelly project of sin.
But my duelling fairy tales intrigued me more and more. So, my summer is less about sin and more about "making." I'm constructing the first fairy tale using photo montage--my materials are commercial images lifted from magazines, websites, and my own photo library. They're easily recognizable and usually whole, intact. By that, I mean you shouldn't be able to see the seams. You recognize the choice, but you don't see the craft. (Example: When a person walking down the street is wearing Abercrombie & Fitch from head-to-toe, you recognize their choice to be identified with what that brand means. But, you don't dwell on how their look was constructed because it was appropriated from a catalogue or mannequin. When you see a person who mixes and matches seemingly disparate clothing, you wonder how they did it and how did they know to do it. Or, at least I do.)
My second fairy tale is all about exposing the seaming and not tucking away the knots. The common thread between the two tales is the "evil" fairy who I have named Baba La-La. She's a black hen with an afro. She's got a lion's booty and ostrich gams. I'm building her dwelling that appears in the first fairy tale. It's a two-dimensional (more often than not) home to fit the flat world of the traditional story. But, as she's Baba La-La, it's hard to keep this witchy hen completely horizontal and depressed. More images from her house and the worlds she inhabits will be posted to this blog. As well as more earnest contemplations about the loveliness of sin.
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