Art of Feminism

In my Cal Arts Coursera class, we explored the development of storytelling overtime -- from mainly portraying historical & biblical scenes -- to illustrating "everyday life" in the 19th century (Edouard Manet) -- to replicating scenes that may or may not be real in the 21st century.

In the 1970s, avant-garde female artists used art as a medium to start questioning the traditional role of women in society.  These artworks spurred reflection.  internalization.  They proved that images and stories are just as necessary as debate in creating change.

I've included a few images, videos and an excerpt below.  They made me reflect on the feminist movement -- where we've come and what still needs to happen.  On the plight of moving from an object to a human.  On the freedom to choose a different path in life.

I think we need more art in public discourse.

Cindy Sherman, Untitled Film Stills

 
Martha Rosler, Semiotics of the Kitchen

Patti Smith, Piss Factory

Sylvia Plath, Bell Jar

“I also remembered Buddy Willard saying in a sinister, knowing way that after Ihad children I would feel differently, I wouldn't want to write poems any more. So I began to think maybe it was true that when you were married and had children it was like being brainwashed, and afterward you went about numb as a slave in some private, totalitarian state.”  

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”