StatuesqueSometimes I think I would be 60% more normal if I had never watched //Doctor Who//. Weeping Angels have ruined art for me.I have always known Medusa.
//Fierce. Terrible. Powerful.//
She is a symbol for so much for so many.
Her tale, her myth, her tragedy, has changed and morphed over time. Leaving fragments for us to reassemble. I never knew her story, just the legacy she left.
She was a priestess of Athena. Her beauty was great—so great that she caught the attention of Poseidon. And when his attention became baleful, she went to Athena’s temple.
For protection. For comfort. For her Goddess’ help.
But no protection was granted.
Poseidon attacked Medusa in the temple of her beloved, virtuous goddess.
Then she was punished for it. Cursed to become the monster we know her as today.
Her gaze constructs statues. Her gaze removes breath.
Removes the remnants of anything alive. Anything valued. Anything human.
Medusa’s statues exist in a realm between life and object.
Stripping back the immateriality of personhood until all that remains is a stone cadaver to gaze upon.
Just as we have removed her story from her, she removes her victims’ stories, leaving them blank slates for us to insert whatever meaning we wish onto.
[[She mutilates life to procure still, helpless, beautiful statues->but it's all the same, really]].
For us to //look//.
For us to //feel//.
For us to //touch//.It's staring at me.
I’ll get to it eventually; I can’t rush through. I’ve got to finish looking at this room in order to give the impression I know how to function in a gallery. Hmmm, interesting, artworks and such.
It’s so lifelike.
It makes me think of the [[soldiers]]. Big and looming and way too realistic for my liking.
But this one is different. It’s not intimidating or malicious.
It's… scared? No, that's not it. It’s more questioning. And tired.
And still looking; I can see the glimmer in its eyes.
Well, I know it's not looking.
It’s wood, [[wood can’t look]].
But what could be more human than expecting everything to be like us. The urge to anthropomorphise anything with a semblance of human characteristics outweighs our logic. But I don’t know if that’s fair to say when discussing something that is //created// with the intent to look like a living thing.
It's why those videos of men groping and harassing [[statues of women]] are so upsetting.
It's why when their breasts discolour differently from the rest of their body, women feel fear.
I shift my weight on my feet. God, I'm so stiff.
Everyone else seems so good at this... at gallery-ing... how did they get so good at this? It's frustrating. I hope my backpack isn’t too loud. Should I have taken it off? It's so quiet in here.
I rock back and forth, back and forth—[[FUCK IT'S STILL WATCHING ME!]][[Pareidolia->soldiers]]: the phenomenon of the brain seeing patterns and images where there are none. Commonly, this involves seeing faces in random objects. Think about those cars that look like they have faces, and the Grilled Cheesus from //Glee//—though it is in the natural world where we see it most often: Images from rock formations, the man on the moon, and pictures in the clouds.We know trees are alive. Like, not in a hippy-dippy woowoo way, but in a scientific way. While only about 1% of a tree is //actually// living, that 1% is enough. This living part of the tree helps it do what it does best: grow.
But there is also the oh-so-cool connections between trees. Big trees talk to their offspring trees, who are talking to neighbouring trees, all through a complex mycological network that spans the earth beneath our feet.
In saying all of this, wood is only alive when it's part of a living tree. As soon as it is separated, it is dead. So, when something is carved and shaped and moulded, it is stripped back of all the connections and turned into a [[new creation entirely->objectification]].I hate how women are always the sex robots in movies.
When I did try to think of a male sex robot, it was just way too hard (no pun intended). In contrast, I could think of like… fifteen female sex robots in media, just off the top of my head (an unsurprising discrepancy). Robotic, synthetic creatures reflect society, but are ultimately fabrications. They are not real, despite their appearance.
The thing is, they are real now.
However, this has not manifested through the hyperrealistic, flesh-mimicking iterations seen in //Westworld// or //Blade Runner//. Instead, we are presented with the subservient, malleable female voices conjured by sets of code and intricate programming—of edited celebrity faces deepfaked onto videos of pornstars; Of mouldable, digital girlfriends.
How big do you want her tits? How long would you like her hair to be? What colour eyes would you like her to have? What type of moan would you prefer she have? What pet name will she call you? How tall? Short? Fat? Thin? Angry? Happy? Cold? Hot? Dumb? Smart? Older? Younger? How young? How scared do you want her to sound? Would you like her to cry while you fuck her?
Step right up, step right up!
It’s all yours for the taking!
You can now craft your perfect woman with the click of a button.
Because, as we all know, the perfect woman will always be a manufactured one.
One you can sculpt to your liking.
And when the new generations of men are scrolling through their apps, and see what they see—these counterfeit humans—do we really expect them to separate fraud from fact? Hundreds of thousands of years of biological advancement, now being manipulated by pixels. Do we expect them to bypass the evolutionary urge to [[attach life to these creations?->a face in the bark]] To identify and separate a simulation so nearly identical to the original? And if there is no line drawn for the synthetic, well, we can hardly expect there to be a difference in the treatment of those real.
Lucky for us gals, customisability is now accessible for ‘real’ women, too! Ozempic, injectables, surgery; soon you too can be the perfect construction of male desire. Hopefully we will soon match our synthetic sisters.
Because it truly, honestly, certainly, undoubtedly, //is// all the same.
To //them//.‘Their part in the story is due, I think, to my bitter disappointment and disgust from schooldays with the shabby use made in Shakespeare of the coming of “Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill”: I longed to devise a setting in which the trees might really march to war.’
J.R.R. Tolkien wrote that in a letter to L.M. Cutts in 1958. A nerdy tidbit I’ll admit, but one I am very fond of.
Did you know Alexander the Great spoke to a tree? I certainly didn’t (but in fairness, I didn't know who Alexander the Great was). Some of the ancient Greeks thought the rustling of an oak tree was Zeus’ voice. To help with their divination, the druids used to chat with trees. Even the great wizard Merlin was transformed into a tree in Arthurian myth (that one’s my favourite).
Trees that look and engage with us humans pop up everywhere. Whether that comes in the form of [[a face in the bark]] or a voice in the wind, the point is that we (humans) love talking to trees; They’re important to us. [[We love giving them animation->alive]].
Trees are intrinsically connected to stories, folklore and mythology.
Obviously.
It feels like that doesn't even need to be said.
Fairy trees, wishing trees, the tree of life, the world tree, and, most relevantly, talking trees—Which are often also (you guessed it) //looking trees//.I’d never heard of Galatea.
Which surprised me as I have an affinity for folklore and mythology. Alas, it had never crossed my path until recently.
Pygmalion was an incredibly talented sculptor in ancient Cyprus, renowned for his skill. He was sick and tired of the ‘immoral’ and ‘disappointing’ women in his town, so he stopped searching for romance and jumped headfirst into his art. He longed to create a statue that embodied all the qualities he found lacking in the disheartening women he had known. The statue he made was one of unfathomable feminine beauty, with soft features and a graceful pose. He longed for her; fell in love with her. So, when he prayed to Aphrodite to help him, she recognised his passion and the sculpture's beauty, gifting it with life. The ivory of his creation then turned to skin, and he kissed her newly warm lips.
The story has been interpreted by artists and writers since its inception, many inspired by the tale's depiction of love, transformation and the divine. //What a momentous win for Pygmailon, to father the woman who would become his lover//. He has escaped the //whorish// and //ugly// women of the town, and his artistry has been rewarded with [[his perfectly crafted Beau->but it's all the same, really]].
I think a lot about Galatea. Her life—or, I suppose, existence. The myth says they lived happily ever after. But the myth didn’t give her a name; it was given to her in the Renaissance. In ancient Greek, Galatea means ‘she who is milk-white’, reducing her even further to her physicality. The myth didn’t give her a voice. The myth merely gave her a creator. I wonder what she thought of him, if she could think anything at all. [[I guess the line between romance and horror has always been blurred for women->Medusa]].Last year, I went to the //Gallipoli: The Scale of Our War// exhibition at Te Papa in Wellington.
It was dead quiet, and the lady at the entrance was trying to get me to go in. Having nothing else to do (and it being free entry), I agreed. Bad idea. I turned around the corner, and there was this massive (and I mean massive) WWI soldier, kneeling in the middle of the room. My stomach dropped to my shoes, and I couldn’t breathe. The silicon skin over sturdy frames was decorated with the familiar texture of pores and stubble.
[[ It looked so real->FUCK IT'S STILL WATCHING ME!]].
I was too scared to turn back and embarrass myself in front of the lady at the entrance, so I committed to going through the whole display. I know it sounds dramatic, but every room I went into dragged me further down into the spiralling, all-consuming fear of the giant soldiers.
Deep down some part of me was certain that their huge guns and wounds and beads of sweat weren’t just silicone, but metal and flesh and salty.In the city of Edinburgh, there are nearly fifty statues of men, and about fifteen statues of animals.
There are five statues of women. Only two of them are named.
I remember hearing this fact on a podcast a couple of years ago, and it regularly pops up in my head. No matter where you are, you will find reproductions of man and beast alike, ranging from influential exemplars of humanity to slave owners and colonisers (the animals normally fall into the former category, but I always check the plaque to be sure).
And yet it's frustrating, because the only time I ever really hear about statues of women, is when the topic of the conversation is their [[objectification]]—of course, they are //technically// objects, but what they represent is all too real.
Their bodies represent the broader treatment of women—of what happens when you’re not looking. First it’s statues, then it's sex dolls, then it's AI girlfriends, [[but it's all the same, really]]. It's all just reflections of us, at the end of the day.It was the first patch of dandelions I’d seen this spring.
Untouched, with fuzz ready to be blown away. I picked one and wished for abundance.
The wind immediately pushed the fur back into my face.
I walked to the corner and decided it was a good day for cake. I mean, it was the first day of spring—a cause for celebration! As I walked towards the bakery, I spotted some tradies sitting, eating dripping meat pies on the bench out the front.
They stared at me.
I smiled, but they didn’t smile back. They kept staring though. I bought a slice of carrot cake adorned with walnuts and crossed the road to the park.
The tradies were still watching.
The park was deserted apart from the occasional retiree. I walked far enough to avoid the sounds of the street, wandering for I don't recall how long. It was calm, with not a soul to be seen. It was nice to feel the sun again. I exited the main trail onto a smaller, less-travelled path. I didn’t know where that one led.
There was a hill and dense greenery surrounding the track, but when I reached the top, there was an array of fluoro-clad men. Not so close that I could make out their faces, but close enough to hear their voices. They must have been landscaping or something. One turned their head to look at me. I turned away. It seemed like the footpath was closed anyway, so I began to retreat.
I glanced back. They were all staring at me.
Shit, did I do something wrong? Should I not have been there?
I walked a little faster down the hill.
Why was I stressed? They didn’t do anything creepy. Why was I being so dramatic?
I retraced my steps through the park. The once peaceful air was tainted by my growing unease. I walked past some tables and chairs. The retirees who once sat there were now gone. Why weren’t there any kids on the playground? Surely everyone would have wanted to be out today. The sun was harsher than before, reddening my ghostly skin. Footsteps sounded behind me—shit. They get louder and faster, and I steal a peek—
A runner. She smiled and nodded while she overtook me.
More walkers and bike riders passed by as the entrance of the park neared, and the noises of the street amplified. Once I made it back to the corner, I looked at the bench where the meat-pie-eating tradies had been. The only evidence of life left was an empty tomato sauce container and pastry crumbs.But there are conversations to be had about living wood. Well, maybe it's more accurate to say, there have always been conversations about living wood.
There is that feeling of peace and safety when you [[walk through]] a forest or a dense pack of trees. And it's not lonely, not in the least. You have the trees looking out for you.
There’s that word again. Looking. Do they look? Because there's a difference between being [[alive]] and [[looking]].
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