Why a Raven is Like a Writing Desk
Yesterday, my niece and I went to the LACMA to take in an installation of women surrealists. We ogled at the people ogling the big shrink-wrapped rock (if you're in El Lay, you might know about it because it's been blocking traffic for the better part of a fortnight). That isn't why we went though--and it isn't what we left with. We were both dying to see Frida Kahlo up close and personal, but I think we received an even better gift.
The exhibition is called In Wonderland in reference to Alice in Wonderland--in fact, many of these women made references to themselves as Alice, either through their paintings or by calling themselves "Alice". What I was struck with was the prevalence of dark humor in their work. Often the subject matter was personally delicate, a little like riffling through the place where women put their most personal unmentionables. Tucked in there, beneath the lace and silk stalkings, in a fragrant corner of a lingerie drawer is the little ribboned shrine to her deepest heart--the best love letters, the secret photos, the most personal poems and journals, the most precious "I love you, Mommy" in backwards, shaky crayon.
I saw women lingering, and men passing by--glossing over the content perhaps, or maybe just not connecting with it. Not always, but usually. I read placards next to some paintings that had me smirking and muttering out of the corner of my mouth, "that was written by a man." Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't, but I found that often these women were misunderstood in their lifetimes, and not given the credit for the things they gave voice to in images. Even today, in the appreciative environment of the museum, I see myself and other women standing emotionally naked in front of many of these images, the content resonating with a place deep inside--and even the studied, meticulous placard seems to miss the point.
Certainly our presence in the workforce, as women, is more accepted now--but as any woman can tell you it is far from equal. We live in a world that perhaps demands more of us, fragmenting us even farther than these artists--these mid-twentieth-century "career" women. What I came away with was assurance that my voice did matter, after all. The silence of the most secret places in a woman's heart should be given voice--and it is when things are most dark that we need to assure each other that we are not the only one "feeling it", the burden of Wonderland and lunchtime and being obscene for having something essential to say. Someone needs to say these things. When it gets darkest, we need to share that private corner of the lingerie drawer. Sometimes knowing you're not the only one with rose-scented ribbons wrapped around your deepest pain makes all the difference in the world between hope and hopelessness.
I am a person who writes from my darkest corners, who can be seen as unsaleable because I wield the knife used to lance an unbearably swollen wound. This exhibition helped me see that my darkness needs expression, but that it needs humor or whimsy to endure. I find I'm most curious about all the pieces these women created which were not considered "museum quality" or were not considered good enough to survive--were they humorous as well? or too uncomfortable to the uninitiated to warrant a second glance? It's a curious problem, and I wish I could rifle through the drawers of "unnotable works".
If you're reading this, I'm sure you're wondering what brought all this philosophical rambling on--all I can say is that I've been wrassling my own muse for a while now, fighting with the rift between writing out my heart and writing something marketable. Perhaps there is room in that chasm for me to find a way forward from here--and Frida Kahlo (along with her contemporaries) have left me a trail of bread crumbs when I thought there was no pathway through.
The exhibition is called In Wonderland in reference to Alice in Wonderland--in fact, many of these women made references to themselves as Alice, either through their paintings or by calling themselves "Alice". What I was struck with was the prevalence of dark humor in their work. Often the subject matter was personally delicate, a little like riffling through the place where women put their most personal unmentionables. Tucked in there, beneath the lace and silk stalkings, in a fragrant corner of a lingerie drawer is the little ribboned shrine to her deepest heart--the best love letters, the secret photos, the most personal poems and journals, the most precious "I love you, Mommy" in backwards, shaky crayon.
I saw women lingering, and men passing by--glossing over the content perhaps, or maybe just not connecting with it. Not always, but usually. I read placards next to some paintings that had me smirking and muttering out of the corner of my mouth, "that was written by a man." Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn't, but I found that often these women were misunderstood in their lifetimes, and not given the credit for the things they gave voice to in images. Even today, in the appreciative environment of the museum, I see myself and other women standing emotionally naked in front of many of these images, the content resonating with a place deep inside--and even the studied, meticulous placard seems to miss the point.
Certainly our presence in the workforce, as women, is more accepted now--but as any woman can tell you it is far from equal. We live in a world that perhaps demands more of us, fragmenting us even farther than these artists--these mid-twentieth-century "career" women. What I came away with was assurance that my voice did matter, after all. The silence of the most secret places in a woman's heart should be given voice--and it is when things are most dark that we need to assure each other that we are not the only one "feeling it", the burden of Wonderland and lunchtime and being obscene for having something essential to say. Someone needs to say these things. When it gets darkest, we need to share that private corner of the lingerie drawer. Sometimes knowing you're not the only one with rose-scented ribbons wrapped around your deepest pain makes all the difference in the world between hope and hopelessness.
I am a person who writes from my darkest corners, who can be seen as unsaleable because I wield the knife used to lance an unbearably swollen wound. This exhibition helped me see that my darkness needs expression, but that it needs humor or whimsy to endure. I find I'm most curious about all the pieces these women created which were not considered "museum quality" or were not considered good enough to survive--were they humorous as well? or too uncomfortable to the uninitiated to warrant a second glance? It's a curious problem, and I wish I could rifle through the drawers of "unnotable works".
If you're reading this, I'm sure you're wondering what brought all this philosophical rambling on--all I can say is that I've been wrassling my own muse for a while now, fighting with the rift between writing out my heart and writing something marketable. Perhaps there is room in that chasm for me to find a way forward from here--and Frida Kahlo (along with her contemporaries) have left me a trail of bread crumbs when I thought there was no pathway through.