(Saturday, 18 Oct, 4pm)
...means ‘to discover’. It sums up my day so far.
I accidentally found my favourite café, in the 20eme, called Culture Rapid. It had a bit of a revolutionary themed / DIY art decor. It felt nice, was friendly, with good music (Laurie Anderson when I arrived, followed by some reggae). I ordered a crepe with my coffee, so I could stay a bit longer. They have an evening events program including spoken word, cabaret, and erotic puppetry, so I’ll be making a trip back. And I only found it because I got hopelessly lost, heading to the 3eme (which is in the opposite direction). Thus proving that being lost need not be bad.
On the way to the café I also discovered a Moroccan restaurant, with €6 vegetarian cous cous. I misread the address though, and now I can’t remember where it is. I remember where I thought I was, but of course, that’s where I wasn’t. It was closed then, but should be open now. I think I’ll set out to find it, but that could be a difficult task.
The border of the 11eme and 20eme is another of my favourite spots. There’s a Vietnamese pocket, a Jewish pocket, more African people and shops, a few queers. There’s also a lot of old French traditionals – I liked how Café Progres was only patronised by old white French men.
Another discovery was my new favourite bookshop. The children’s books were amazing, and at one point I had three in my hand. I put two back (for now) after contemplating my suitcase. But I dare say I’ll return. They also had a large Kristeva selection, and cheap! €8.50 for the French version of ‘The Powers of Horror”, which I bought (half the price I’d pay in Australia; and it’s the original French text; and it’s further incentive to learn French).
My final discovery (so far) was an Algerian patisserie. So so unbelievably good! I now want to visit Algeria more than ever. For now I’ll just make do with the sweets. I tried a pistachio one and a hazelnut one (which means there’s approx 45 others I’m yet to taste).
Something’s going on outside. Rue de Filles du Calvaire was blocked off when I passed through, with Police everywhere, and I could here a marching band. Now I can hear street crowds. Maybe it’s some special day. Watching the traffic was quite amusing though. All the side streets had traffic jams that weren’t able to move anywhere, and horn tooting was getting more and more frequent.
Time now to cherche pour les cous cous. And maybe I’ll see what all this racket’s about.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
approaching the Sorbonne
Fri 17th, 5pm.
has it only been three days?
my feet are tired from constant walking. i walk until i'm unquestionably lost, and then i check my map and walk some more. the streets are small, curved, and defy any order. paired with my sense of direction, i'm resigned to always being a bit lost.
i'm now in the 11th arrondissement, where it meets the 10th and 3rd. all three are joined by the Place de la Republique, a junction of many roads. i always feel like i'm on the right one, but i'm always not. so i walk circles for hours, until i check my map.
today i walked over several bridges, and through hoardes of tourists (on Ile de la Cité where Notre Dame is) to meet Alice, whose apartment I'll be staying in for 3 weeks, from Monday.
Alice lives in the 5th arrondissement, right fucking next to the Sorbonne! I was feeling a bit acquainted with Paris, but the 5th did something to me. It seemed obvious that I was approaching a uni hub. And then i passed more and more bookshops, including one just selling 'sciences humaine' texts. they were closed for lunch. just when i was all aflutter with a quickened pulse i walked past a fence signposted 'Square Michel Foucault'. oh my. it was next to College de France. i was early, so walked around the block. students everywhere, and more bookshops. including one with drawers protruding from the shopfront, spilling books onto the street.
Alice was nice. she's an archaeologist and studies at the College de France. she's from Italy, but has lived in Spain, US, Egypt, and now France. She speaks 4 languages, but says Italian doesn't count, as that's her native tongue. she speaks a lot, with intensity, and that was hard to digest after days of no conversation. i'll meet her again tomorrow, and this time we'll speak more French, less English.
she tells me you're not allowed to enter the Sorbonne without ID to show that you're a student. damn! and sure enough, security guards were checking everyone.
I'm eating too much cheese. this morning i woke up with a tummy ache. but then i ate chocolate for breakfast, and an apple tartlet. and just now, more cheese. and now i sink into this mattress, close to sleep.
has it only been three days?
my feet are tired from constant walking. i walk until i'm unquestionably lost, and then i check my map and walk some more. the streets are small, curved, and defy any order. paired with my sense of direction, i'm resigned to always being a bit lost.
i'm now in the 11th arrondissement, where it meets the 10th and 3rd. all three are joined by the Place de la Republique, a junction of many roads. i always feel like i'm on the right one, but i'm always not. so i walk circles for hours, until i check my map.
today i walked over several bridges, and through hoardes of tourists (on Ile de la Cité where Notre Dame is) to meet Alice, whose apartment I'll be staying in for 3 weeks, from Monday.
Alice lives in the 5th arrondissement, right fucking next to the Sorbonne! I was feeling a bit acquainted with Paris, but the 5th did something to me. It seemed obvious that I was approaching a uni hub. And then i passed more and more bookshops, including one just selling 'sciences humaine' texts. they were closed for lunch. just when i was all aflutter with a quickened pulse i walked past a fence signposted 'Square Michel Foucault'. oh my. it was next to College de France. i was early, so walked around the block. students everywhere, and more bookshops. including one with drawers protruding from the shopfront, spilling books onto the street.
Alice was nice. she's an archaeologist and studies at the College de France. she's from Italy, but has lived in Spain, US, Egypt, and now France. She speaks 4 languages, but says Italian doesn't count, as that's her native tongue. she speaks a lot, with intensity, and that was hard to digest after days of no conversation. i'll meet her again tomorrow, and this time we'll speak more French, less English.
she tells me you're not allowed to enter the Sorbonne without ID to show that you're a student. damn! and sure enough, security guards were checking everyone.
I'm eating too much cheese. this morning i woke up with a tummy ache. but then i ate chocolate for breakfast, and an apple tartlet. and just now, more cheese. and now i sink into this mattress, close to sleep.
Friday, October 17, 2008
day by day
Day 2: October 16, 6:54am
I like the sound of sirens here. Not so high-pitched and disruptive. Loud yet low. Almost calming in comparison.
Everything i have here is constructed through comparison. The sirens, the people, the hotel furniture. I have a long pillow that is the width of the bed, instead of the 2 pillows i would have in Australia. I’m used to stacking them to prop myself up as i type, but can’t do this here.
Nothing is new in the sense that i can compare everything to something. But much is different. And this i like. I like not quite knowing how i feel about a place. I don’t wish to be able to make ‘knowing’ statements about Paris or Parisians. I don’t need to know whether i like them or not. I’m ambivalent. I’m an outsider. I’m here to discover things, mostly about me. it’s unlikely that visiting a monument will help me to do so.
Last night i walked to Ile Saint Louis, then crossed another bridge to Notre Dame. It was impressive, yes. But frustrating, because i wanted to look at the stone work up close. I wanted to touch and look at the figures up high. The carvings, the shapes; all so beautiful, out of reach. Lots of tourists took photos. How many photos of the Notre Dame can there be? To fit the entire thing onto a photograph you would need to stand far away from it. What’s the point? The beauty is in the detail, and the hands and lives of those that carved it. Photography can’t capture that. As a concept, photography serves only to erase it. To put gloss where there is none.
And my comparisons extend to other tourists. I want to disassociate myself from them. Like the guy also buying novels out front of a shop last night. He jumped in to look from the row of books i was looking at, then said ‘sorry’. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to out myself as English-speaking, and therefore, like him. i also hated the people riding bikes slowly, distracted by monuments. I hated all people with cameras, people reading plaques on walls, people milling about, having stepped off buses. Though i did like the girl reading her maps on Ile Saint Louis. She was alone, without camera, somewhat discrete, like me. i position myself as a model visitor to this place, but when i open my mouth and try to speak, or try to hear words, i am just as much a nuisance as the rest of them.
I try to blend in, but i know that i cannot. I think of people telling me i look French. I recall three girls on the seat near the old Hunter St Post Office, and how one said “are you French?” That was years ago, seemingly trivial, but has stayed with me. I guess i found it flattering. I want to be French, partly because i want to be ‘other’. And perhaps this is an other that i can get away with (according to those girls).
But i also want to be Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and other others. In my travels i think of their stories. Their love/hate of Paris, but how it eventually wins them over. And how it’s not so much about Paris but the people they meet, and the surroundings that cushion their meetings, desires, writings. I’m being hopelessly nostalgic, and do understand that the years around and between the wars are different to today. The banding together of artists and misfits can’t happen like it once did. Paris cannot provide me with access to another time. There is no Henry, June and Anais today.
After a nap yesterday, i felt itchy for a second, and immediately concluded that this was a Henry Miller (bed bugs from cheap hotels) experience. But there’s no bugs. Strange that I wanted this, just to be closer to his world. I wonder if i should have brought Tropic of Cancer with me. But maybe i’m better off without it. That could make me more desperate in my wanting to be him. But i can’t not think of him, when all these streets and places are familiar because of his and Anais Nin’s writings. Montmatre, Place de Clichy, Montparnasse... signs of them are everywhere, and remind me of stories i felt close to, the pleasure i had in reading them, the desire to be there. And here i am. but alone and somewhat muted. With no Anais to take me under her wing.
"I've lived out my melancholy youth. I don't give a fuck anymore what's behind me, or what's ahead of me. I'm healthy. Incurably healthy. No sorrows, no regrets. No past, no future. The present is enough for me. Day by day." (Miller, Tropic of Cancer)
I like the sound of sirens here. Not so high-pitched and disruptive. Loud yet low. Almost calming in comparison.
Everything i have here is constructed through comparison. The sirens, the people, the hotel furniture. I have a long pillow that is the width of the bed, instead of the 2 pillows i would have in Australia. I’m used to stacking them to prop myself up as i type, but can’t do this here.
Nothing is new in the sense that i can compare everything to something. But much is different. And this i like. I like not quite knowing how i feel about a place. I don’t wish to be able to make ‘knowing’ statements about Paris or Parisians. I don’t need to know whether i like them or not. I’m ambivalent. I’m an outsider. I’m here to discover things, mostly about me. it’s unlikely that visiting a monument will help me to do so.
Last night i walked to Ile Saint Louis, then crossed another bridge to Notre Dame. It was impressive, yes. But frustrating, because i wanted to look at the stone work up close. I wanted to touch and look at the figures up high. The carvings, the shapes; all so beautiful, out of reach. Lots of tourists took photos. How many photos of the Notre Dame can there be? To fit the entire thing onto a photograph you would need to stand far away from it. What’s the point? The beauty is in the detail, and the hands and lives of those that carved it. Photography can’t capture that. As a concept, photography serves only to erase it. To put gloss where there is none.
And my comparisons extend to other tourists. I want to disassociate myself from them. Like the guy also buying novels out front of a shop last night. He jumped in to look from the row of books i was looking at, then said ‘sorry’. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to out myself as English-speaking, and therefore, like him. i also hated the people riding bikes slowly, distracted by monuments. I hated all people with cameras, people reading plaques on walls, people milling about, having stepped off buses. Though i did like the girl reading her maps on Ile Saint Louis. She was alone, without camera, somewhat discrete, like me. i position myself as a model visitor to this place, but when i open my mouth and try to speak, or try to hear words, i am just as much a nuisance as the rest of them.
I try to blend in, but i know that i cannot. I think of people telling me i look French. I recall three girls on the seat near the old Hunter St Post Office, and how one said “are you French?” That was years ago, seemingly trivial, but has stayed with me. I guess i found it flattering. I want to be French, partly because i want to be ‘other’. And perhaps this is an other that i can get away with (according to those girls).
But i also want to be Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and other others. In my travels i think of their stories. Their love/hate of Paris, but how it eventually wins them over. And how it’s not so much about Paris but the people they meet, and the surroundings that cushion their meetings, desires, writings. I’m being hopelessly nostalgic, and do understand that the years around and between the wars are different to today. The banding together of artists and misfits can’t happen like it once did. Paris cannot provide me with access to another time. There is no Henry, June and Anais today.
After a nap yesterday, i felt itchy for a second, and immediately concluded that this was a Henry Miller (bed bugs from cheap hotels) experience. But there’s no bugs. Strange that I wanted this, just to be closer to his world. I wonder if i should have brought Tropic of Cancer with me. But maybe i’m better off without it. That could make me more desperate in my wanting to be him. But i can’t not think of him, when all these streets and places are familiar because of his and Anais Nin’s writings. Montmatre, Place de Clichy, Montparnasse... signs of them are everywhere, and remind me of stories i felt close to, the pleasure i had in reading them, the desire to be there. And here i am. but alone and somewhat muted. With no Anais to take me under her wing.
"I've lived out my melancholy youth. I don't give a fuck anymore what's behind me, or what's ahead of me. I'm healthy. Incurably healthy. No sorrows, no regrets. No past, no future. The present is enough for me. Day by day." (Miller, Tropic of Cancer)
Thursday, October 16, 2008
a paris: day one
Being in a place where everyone speaks another language is a new and strange experience for me. it actually started in Singapore, boarding an Air France flight, where all of the attendants spoke French. It was only when you looked dumbstruck that they spoke to you in English. I attempted to ask for red wine, but was met with ‘pardon?’ ‘vin rouge’ – that’s not particularly difficult, but still i failed. Yet, i was sandwiched between 2 guys from Australia, so felt a little embarrassed trying, and didn’t really speak much French after that. I didn’t want to respond in English either, so did lots of pointing and smiling, and muttering under my breath. But when i got off the plane, i echoed their chants of ‘au revoir’. Though i think i said café once instead of coffee. Again, this was repeating what was said to me. i was too scared to come out and say/ask for something fresh, after the red wine thing. Though there is a chance that i’m just speaking really softly, because i’m so embarrassed about how i sound.
My next interaction was with a ticket seller at Charles de gaule airport, for a train to paris. I asked in simple (few words as possible) French, but he responded in English.
I dared myself to ask the woman next to me on the train if it would stop at Chatelet les Halles, even though i knew it would. It went down well, and she was very pleasant. I thanked her and she said something that may roughly translate at “not at all it is my pleasure”. Well, that’s what i read from a few words i got, and the way she said it.
Next was a café in the Marais. I went there because they have wireless internet, but also asked for a coffee, and a plate of three cheeses. I asked for espresso, as i couldn’t remember how to ask for a long black. I suspect it’s cafe noir. But i didn’t want to have that difficult conversation in a small and busy cafe. And cheese. For over $A20. But there was a lot of cheese. And it was good cheese. Some camembert (i think), some goat’s fetta mini-wheels (i think) and some yellow sliced stuff that i couldn’t even guess, but it was nice, and necessary mild next to the other 2. Oh, and i was given a few bits of bread. Not really enough for all that cheese. But i ate it all. Including the mouldy spots on one of the fetta wheels, which didn’t look like the good mould you’re supposed to eat, but i thought surely they wouldn’t give it to me if you shouldn’t. Who am i to question the French on cheese mould. Unless the guy was really offended by my softly spoken and broken French.
I’m concerned that i’m rude when i attempt French, as i say basic words, the most direct formation, and was forgetting to smile and say merci. So merci is my new favourite word. I said it to a man in the cafe who stepped aside as i was leaving, to let me pass. Again, he came back with something elaborate and exquisitely pleasant, like my train friend. So far i’m more inclined to think that Parisians are incredibly nice, unlike the cultural stereotype.
The boy on the desk of the hotel i’m staying in was also very nice. His English is almost as bad as my French, so it was good to have a conversation that wasn’t only challenging for me. he didn’t understand my initial request for “une chambre” though. What am i doing wrong with that? So simple.
But again, very nice. And again, it was tiring. I left my bag here, went for more walking until the room was cleaned, went to the supermarket. I was pleased that the girl on the check out was disinterested and didn’t say hi to anyone. It made things easier. Then i had another chat with the boy on reception, and then the cleaners. With one cleaner, i realised the value of charade like gestures. I asked where the shower was (douche). She didn’t get it. “wash” “bath chambre”... then she went on to say “pour douche” (2 handed gesture of water trickling onto head) “un, deux” (pointing downstairs, but also counting the two with her fingers). She was lovely. they all are.
I’m very tired and think i’ll sleep now, even though it’s only 1pm. Though i can’t even begin to count the hours in which i haven’t slept. I gained 9 hours, but slept about 1.5 hours on the planes.
My next interaction was with a ticket seller at Charles de gaule airport, for a train to paris. I asked in simple (few words as possible) French, but he responded in English.
I dared myself to ask the woman next to me on the train if it would stop at Chatelet les Halles, even though i knew it would. It went down well, and she was very pleasant. I thanked her and she said something that may roughly translate at “not at all it is my pleasure”. Well, that’s what i read from a few words i got, and the way she said it.
Next was a café in the Marais. I went there because they have wireless internet, but also asked for a coffee, and a plate of three cheeses. I asked for espresso, as i couldn’t remember how to ask for a long black. I suspect it’s cafe noir. But i didn’t want to have that difficult conversation in a small and busy cafe. And cheese. For over $A20. But there was a lot of cheese. And it was good cheese. Some camembert (i think), some goat’s fetta mini-wheels (i think) and some yellow sliced stuff that i couldn’t even guess, but it was nice, and necessary mild next to the other 2. Oh, and i was given a few bits of bread. Not really enough for all that cheese. But i ate it all. Including the mouldy spots on one of the fetta wheels, which didn’t look like the good mould you’re supposed to eat, but i thought surely they wouldn’t give it to me if you shouldn’t. Who am i to question the French on cheese mould. Unless the guy was really offended by my softly spoken and broken French.
I’m concerned that i’m rude when i attempt French, as i say basic words, the most direct formation, and was forgetting to smile and say merci. So merci is my new favourite word. I said it to a man in the cafe who stepped aside as i was leaving, to let me pass. Again, he came back with something elaborate and exquisitely pleasant, like my train friend. So far i’m more inclined to think that Parisians are incredibly nice, unlike the cultural stereotype.
The boy on the desk of the hotel i’m staying in was also very nice. His English is almost as bad as my French, so it was good to have a conversation that wasn’t only challenging for me. he didn’t understand my initial request for “une chambre” though. What am i doing wrong with that? So simple.
But again, very nice. And again, it was tiring. I left my bag here, went for more walking until the room was cleaned, went to the supermarket. I was pleased that the girl on the check out was disinterested and didn’t say hi to anyone. It made things easier. Then i had another chat with the boy on reception, and then the cleaners. With one cleaner, i realised the value of charade like gestures. I asked where the shower was (douche). She didn’t get it. “wash” “bath chambre”... then she went on to say “pour douche” (2 handed gesture of water trickling onto head) “un, deux” (pointing downstairs, but also counting the two with her fingers). She was lovely. they all are.
I’m very tired and think i’ll sleep now, even though it’s only 1pm. Though i can’t even begin to count the hours in which i haven’t slept. I gained 9 hours, but slept about 1.5 hours on the planes.
Friday, October 10, 2008
shoes too bright for paris
today my french work colleague commented on how bright my green shoes are. he said that nobody in paris wears shoes like this. hmm... really? i will stand out.
we chatted about my flat-searching and i showed him where i might be staying. he told me about the good things around this area - the markets, a garden, good walks, proximity to bars. i asked what his favourite bar was, and he said Open Café. he also recommended Raidd Bar, where you get to watch men showering behind glass walls. i think i'll have to check that one out. it's not often you get to watch men shower while you sip your gin and tonic.
and then he says "oh yeah, sex clubs" and starts web-searching some more, leaning over me, into me, in my glass-walled office. did i mention he's married to the boss. it was strange, amusing, and slightly hot. i secretly wanted people to walk past, see how close we were, and suspect that something was going on.
tomorrow's my last day.
we chatted about my flat-searching and i showed him where i might be staying. he told me about the good things around this area - the markets, a garden, good walks, proximity to bars. i asked what his favourite bar was, and he said Open Café. he also recommended Raidd Bar, where you get to watch men showering behind glass walls. i think i'll have to check that one out. it's not often you get to watch men shower while you sip your gin and tonic.
and then he says "oh yeah, sex clubs" and starts web-searching some more, leaning over me, into me, in my glass-walled office. did i mention he's married to the boss. it was strange, amusing, and slightly hot. i secretly wanted people to walk past, see how close we were, and suspect that something was going on.
tomorrow's my last day.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
close to away
this time next week... i don't know where i'll be. singapore? paris? somewhere above the indian ocean?
i won't be here though.
i'm starting to feel it. somewhat excited, somewhat scared. at the moment the cup is half full.
housemate just assured me that 6 weeks will pass quickly and that i'll meet a lot of people because i'm traveling alone. that was comforting. i've been a little concerned about getting lonely. but yeah, i will make friends. it's what i do here, so why not there? though i don't wanna make friends with english speaking tourists, so will have to get a better handle on the language so i can befriend some french types.
i think that the people around me are more excited than i am. they want to be me. and sometimes i feel like handing over my ticket. not that i have an actual ticket that i can hold in my hand. maybe if i did, i'd be holding it right now, and getting excited.
my godmother rang last night to have a chat before i left. i haven't spoken to her in years, it seems. she warned me about being ripped off by shopkeepers, like she was in italy. she told me how she bought red glassware, but they wrapped up the cheap green stuff. so she went back and said "i didn't fuckin buy this".
it was nice to speak to her. she asked if mark was going as well. that was nice too, as i've never spoken to her about mark before. but she knows cos she's close to mum. and she's cool. and she says fuck (unlike my mum).
i won't be here though.
i'm starting to feel it. somewhat excited, somewhat scared. at the moment the cup is half full.
housemate just assured me that 6 weeks will pass quickly and that i'll meet a lot of people because i'm traveling alone. that was comforting. i've been a little concerned about getting lonely. but yeah, i will make friends. it's what i do here, so why not there? though i don't wanna make friends with english speaking tourists, so will have to get a better handle on the language so i can befriend some french types.
i think that the people around me are more excited than i am. they want to be me. and sometimes i feel like handing over my ticket. not that i have an actual ticket that i can hold in my hand. maybe if i did, i'd be holding it right now, and getting excited.
my godmother rang last night to have a chat before i left. i haven't spoken to her in years, it seems. she warned me about being ripped off by shopkeepers, like she was in italy. she told me how she bought red glassware, but they wrapped up the cheap green stuff. so she went back and said "i didn't fuckin buy this".
it was nice to speak to her. she asked if mark was going as well. that was nice too, as i've never spoken to her about mark before. but she knows cos she's close to mum. and she's cool. and she says fuck (unlike my mum).
Monday, October 6, 2008
masculinity is dead
today i was on a panel talking about masculinity and zine making. it was an interesting experience. as usual, i came away thinking about all the things i wanted to say but didn't. things to fill in the gaps. that's always the way.
to some extent it felt like i was on the wrong panel. the other boys had no difficulty talking about 'dominant masculinity' and how they tried to reject it. i was unable to speak to this. i could have said i had a problem with this concept (which i said of many other statements made), but i didn't. i wanted to say there's no such thing as dominant masculinity. i wanted to challenge the binaries that were being thrown about, the sense of them vs us - gay/straight, male/female.... but i didn't. or maybe i kind of attempted to, but i don't think i was understood (which could be my fault).
i was most comfortable when we strayed from the topic. yes, let's talk about sex instead. and porn. i can talk about that! only at the end when someone asked a question relating to zines did i realise that zines should have been the focal point of this panel. talking through our zines to discuss our grapplings with gender. rather than the sometimes-macho assertions and grand statements that fell effortlessly into microphones.
a statement was made that there have been no good books on masculinity since the 60s. i was a little fucked off about that. but i'll channel this into something positive (and rebuke this statement in the privacy and comfort of my armchair) by now giving some recommendations for some decent summer masculinities reading.
female masculinity - judith halberstam (1998)
i think this is my favourite book about masculinities because it challenges the idea that masculinities only belong to men. it refers to masculinity as embodied, performed, and sometimes female. nice.
the end of masculinity - john macinnes (1998)
this book nicely frames masculinity as ideology, a fantasy, an uninhabitable space. here, masculinity does not (and cannot) belong to individuals, so challenging it as an individual level (as r.w. connell does) is problematic.
white - richard dyer (1997)
not specifically about masculinity, more about whiteness, but nonetheless a critique of the masculinity of whiteness, and a good investigation of how racial, sexual, gender ideologies tend to support and strengthen each other, and the privilege of rational disembodiment.
male matters - calvin thomas (1995)
draws from irigaray, hegel and others to look at male anxiety, particularly around the body, and its relationship (and knowability) through language and desire.
homosexual desire - guy hocquenghem (1972)
hocquenghem believes the centre of the male body is the anus - a site of eroticism and anxiety. an argument furthered by leo bersani's 'is the rectum a grave?' again, a discussion of masculinity (like all the best ones) that doesn't set out to define it, but question it through discussion of what might be considered non-masculine (in this case homo desire) but indeed is.
perhaps i should have read an excerpt from the above macinnes book at today's panel. something along the lines of:
"...masculinity does not exist as the property, character trait or aspect of individuals. This means that trying to define masculinity, or masculinities is a fruitless task, and also that explanations of how men came to have much greater power, resources and status than women in the modern world which rely upon the concept of masculinity used in this way are unlikely to be helpful. I argue that masculinity exists only as various ideologies or fantasies about what men should be like, which men and women develop to make sense of their lives."
but alas, i did not. and i was very conscious of keeping it non-academic, given that most people (panelists included) did not view gender through the lens of theory. as a result, i was somewhat speechless, or conscious that my words would not be heard in the way i want them to. i'm yet to get a handle on translating my theory-speak to everyday conversation.
not that there weren't some interesting things said, because there was. and maybe this isn't my audience anyway.
but anyway, my day improved. i got some nice feedback about my new zine by a friend whose words mean a lot to me. so the panel was quickly forgotten. except it wasn't. because there are good books on masculinity, dammit! and there's likely to be a thousand more that i don't know of.
to some extent it felt like i was on the wrong panel. the other boys had no difficulty talking about 'dominant masculinity' and how they tried to reject it. i was unable to speak to this. i could have said i had a problem with this concept (which i said of many other statements made), but i didn't. i wanted to say there's no such thing as dominant masculinity. i wanted to challenge the binaries that were being thrown about, the sense of them vs us - gay/straight, male/female.... but i didn't. or maybe i kind of attempted to, but i don't think i was understood (which could be my fault).
i was most comfortable when we strayed from the topic. yes, let's talk about sex instead. and porn. i can talk about that! only at the end when someone asked a question relating to zines did i realise that zines should have been the focal point of this panel. talking through our zines to discuss our grapplings with gender. rather than the sometimes-macho assertions and grand statements that fell effortlessly into microphones.
a statement was made that there have been no good books on masculinity since the 60s. i was a little fucked off about that. but i'll channel this into something positive (and rebuke this statement in the privacy and comfort of my armchair) by now giving some recommendations for some decent summer masculinities reading.
female masculinity - judith halberstam (1998)
i think this is my favourite book about masculinities because it challenges the idea that masculinities only belong to men. it refers to masculinity as embodied, performed, and sometimes female. nice.
the end of masculinity - john macinnes (1998)
this book nicely frames masculinity as ideology, a fantasy, an uninhabitable space. here, masculinity does not (and cannot) belong to individuals, so challenging it as an individual level (as r.w. connell does) is problematic.
white - richard dyer (1997)
not specifically about masculinity, more about whiteness, but nonetheless a critique of the masculinity of whiteness, and a good investigation of how racial, sexual, gender ideologies tend to support and strengthen each other, and the privilege of rational disembodiment.
male matters - calvin thomas (1995)
draws from irigaray, hegel and others to look at male anxiety, particularly around the body, and its relationship (and knowability) through language and desire.
homosexual desire - guy hocquenghem (1972)
hocquenghem believes the centre of the male body is the anus - a site of eroticism and anxiety. an argument furthered by leo bersani's 'is the rectum a grave?' again, a discussion of masculinity (like all the best ones) that doesn't set out to define it, but question it through discussion of what might be considered non-masculine (in this case homo desire) but indeed is.
perhaps i should have read an excerpt from the above macinnes book at today's panel. something along the lines of:
"...masculinity does not exist as the property, character trait or aspect of individuals. This means that trying to define masculinity, or masculinities is a fruitless task, and also that explanations of how men came to have much greater power, resources and status than women in the modern world which rely upon the concept of masculinity used in this way are unlikely to be helpful. I argue that masculinity exists only as various ideologies or fantasies about what men should be like, which men and women develop to make sense of their lives."
but alas, i did not. and i was very conscious of keeping it non-academic, given that most people (panelists included) did not view gender through the lens of theory. as a result, i was somewhat speechless, or conscious that my words would not be heard in the way i want them to. i'm yet to get a handle on translating my theory-speak to everyday conversation.
not that there weren't some interesting things said, because there was. and maybe this isn't my audience anyway.
but anyway, my day improved. i got some nice feedback about my new zine by a friend whose words mean a lot to me. so the panel was quickly forgotten. except it wasn't. because there are good books on masculinity, dammit! and there's likely to be a thousand more that i don't know of.
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