le projet d'amour

Beginners

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 07:45:00 +0000

There are certain films that make me wish I was more of an actual ‘critic’, rather than someone who simply jots down personal impressions of films. Although I have listed a ‘film reviews’ section on the sidebar of this blog, I feel like a bit of a fraud calling what I write on films (and books) ‘reviews’. But I have to call it something, so ‘reviews’ will do. Some films are just so good though, that I wish I had a better vocabulary and a more rounded skill in expressing why. Mike Mills’s Beginners is one such film.

I’ve been saving writing about this film till after I finished writing my book. It’s like my reward. I first saw Beginners in the cinema and walked out in tears (please note if you ever go to the movies with me, I am prone to displays of emotion). I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a DVD copy of it and my friend from the UK kindly sent me one recently. I re-watched Beginners today and fell in love with this film even more. I wanted to write on it straight away.

I don’t really want to talk about the plot of this film, so if you haven’t seen it, here’s a short description. I also don’t want to engage with it intellectually. Certain films make me react by recalling quotes and theoretical material I’ve read. It’s like game where I connect art and theory together. It’s a very enjoyable game, but it’s not one I play with every film. Beginners just pulled me in at a gut-level, like listening to a beautifully crafted song whose meaning nevertheless resides in the emotions it evokes, rather than in its craft.

So here we are. Why did I love Beginners so much? Well, because it doesn’t try to simplify things that other films often simplify: grief, sadness, love, desire, sex, relationships, happiness. Its honesty and vulnerability is not some black and white construct of elated joy or bleak realism. It moves beyond the familiar genres of sweet, indie self-introspection and depressing, gritty realism. It’s like it puts these genres together in a blender and mixes them to produce something more authentic and more in line with ordinary people’s experiences of life. There are many films that claim (or attempt) to do this, but very few that succeed. At least in my opinion.

You could say this is a film about a multitude of life ‘lessons’: learning to accept who and what you are, learning to love and trust in other people, learning to live with imperfection and disappointment, learning not to be afraid of vulnerability, learning to let go of the baggage of our pasts and our parents. All very important ‘lessons’, yes, but I don’t like didactic films. Rather than being a ‘lesson’, Beginners is an empathetic narrative. It also features one of Ewan McGregor’s best performances. Although I did think he was ever-so-slightly outshined by Arthur the dog. What a neat little man.

I loved everything about Beginners: its story, acting, characters, narration, style, dialogue, humour, sensitivity, cleverness (that never resorted to cool pretentiousness), and so on, and so on. All these aspects worked together in such a natural way. And although I came away from it with many scenes stuck in my mind, there’s one scene that dominates. If you’ve seen the film, you’ll recognise this:

Hal: Well, let’s say that since you were little, you always dreamed of getting a lion. And you wait, and you wait, and you wait, and you wait, but the lion doesn’t come. And along comes a giraffe. You can be alone, or you can be with the giraffe.
Oliver: I’d wait for the lion.
Hal: That’s why I worry about you.

I suspect that’s why my parents worry about me too. But hey, I’ve loved a few giraffes deeply while waiting for my lion. And that lion is somewhere.

If you haven’t seen Beginners, set aside a quiet day to enjoy it. If you have seen it, I’d love to hear your opinion.

Finished!

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 01:42:00 +0000

I don't usually use exclamation marks in my post titles, that should tell you something. Guess what everyone? I finished my book. It's done, submitted to my publisher and as of yesterday, it officially entered the production phase. Of course, this production process will take a few months, and so the book will not be in stores just yet. But still, a momentous day for me, full of relief. I feel like for the past few months I've been poised on the edge of something, sort of like the dancer in this photo. And now, all I want to do is let go of the poise, collapse on the sand, and sleep.

Thanks for all your support. In the past few months, I've received so many kind emails, comments and tweets. They really meant a lot to me. This weekend, for the first time in ages, I plan to do absolutely nothing. I may even get up late and watch television all day. How's that for being a rebel? Have a great weekend everyone!

Image credit: Anna Duncan photographed by Arnold Genthe.

A Sunset with Poppies

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 02:39:00 +0000

There is a sadness everywhere present
but impossible to point to, a sadness that hides in the world
and lingers. You look for it because it is everywhere.
When you give up, it haunts your dreams
with black pepper and blood and when you wake
you don’t know where you are.

But then you see the poppies, a disheveled stand of them.
And the sun shining down like God, loving all of us equally,
mountain and valley, plant, animal, human, and therefore
shouldn’t we love all things equally back?
And then you see the clouds.

The poppies are wild, they are only beautiful and tall
so long as you do not cut them,
they are like the feral cat who purrs and rubs against your leg
but will scratch you if you touch back.
Love is letting the world be half-tamed.
That’s how the rain comes, softly and attentively, then

with unstoppable force. If you
stare upwards as it falls, you will see
they are falling sparks that light nothing only because
the ground interrupts them. You can hear the way they’d burn,
the smoldering sound they make falling into the grass.

That is a sound for the sadness everywhere present.
The closest you have come to seeing it
is at night, with the window open and the lamp on,
when the moths perch on the white walls,
tiny as a fingernail to large as a Gerbera daisy
and take turns agitating around the light.

If you grasp one by the wing,
its pill-sized body will convulse
in your closed palm and you can feel the wing beats
like an eyelid’s obsessive blinking open to see.
But now it is still light and the blackbirds are singing
as if their voices are the only scissors left in this world.

-Jennifer Grotz, "Poppies".

Summer is a strange beast here in Western Australia. You spend much time bathed in humidity and a cloud of unbearable heat. You complain, and mumble and groan. You start to resent the bubbly face of the weather woman who proclaims yet another day of stifling heat and another night of restless sleep. You start to contemplate Siberia as an attractive alternative. Your brain and body feel drained by their environment. But then, in the middle of washing the dishes in the sink, you pause, and stare out the window at a summer sunset. The sky looks like candy floss, like you could reach out and touch it. Suddenly, all the warmth you've been dreading seems indescribably beautiful. So you clean the detergent soap from your hands, take a chair and a poem, and read beneath the blanket of this warmth. For five minutes, you and summer are suddenly friends, because what could be better than reading about untamed poppies and a restless love under the enveloping intimacy of a disappearing summer sky?

This Year Print

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 00:50:00 +0000

A few weeks ago, I received an email from Lynn from Satsuma Press. She asked my permission to turn a fragment of my new year poem into a print. I was so flattered and thought this was such a neat idea, so of course I said yes. It's also nice to be approached by someone as lovely as Lynn. So first off, I want to say a huge thank you to her for reaching out to me and coming up with this idea.

The print from my poem can be purchased here in Lynn's shop. Personally, I'm going to frame and hang a copy above my desk as a gentle reminder when I'm stressed. I hope you like it everyone!

Visit Lynn in her : : Shop : : Website : : Blog : :

Image credits: images from here by Lynn Russell for Satsuma Press.

P.S. Please feel free to spread the word!

Summer Interlude

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:24:00 +0000

There are five or six films in the history of the cinema which one wants to review simply by saying, 'It is the most beautiful of films.' Because there can be no higher praise ... I love Summer Interlude.

-Jean Luc Godard, Cahiers du Cinéma, July 1958.

I was reading this article on Lana Del Rey yesterday (which you should absolutely go and read now). And then it hit me why I love Ingmar Bergman's film, Summer Interlude (1951). I often come to an appreciation of things in a roundabout way, and from strange sources. The author of the article on Del Ray, Lindsay Zoladz, expresses what I essentially dislike about her form of music and 'style': a lack of living, substance, meaning and vulnerability. It is, to borrow from her own album title, totally 'dead'.

I don't know about you, but I've been noticing this oh-so-cool 'ironic' slant being used in various art forms: music, literature, film, and so on. Something which is totally vacuous and vapid has a self-conscious 'ironic' tag attached to it, and suddenly we're supposed to appreciate it because the artist/musician is aware of their own meaninglessness. And when you add the extra descriptive word of 'postmodernist' irony, well then, it must be cool.

I just don't buy it, I need something else, something that tries to say something new or just anything at all, to appreciate a song, a style, a piece of work. I don't particularly like the bodily scrutiny which Del Ray has been subjected to as I think it's obviously sexist in tone. But I do agree with those critics who examine her music and find something missing. That missing element for me is primarily vulnerability.

What does this have to do with the film, Summer Interlude? Well, plenty actually. This is a film that is all about learning to be vulnerable. When I first saw it, I was seduced by its outward beauty. Its style and its clever thematic uses of the black and white aesthetic are things which I blogged about in my analysis of the film for Behind Ballet. But now I'm not so sure this is the most interesting thing about the film. I think Bergman's genius instead lies in his ability to skillfully merge this style with something profoundly human: the need to be raw, unprotected by a beautiful coolness, to be, as I said, vulnerable. Because that's what ultimately brings people together.

In Bergman's film of a cool ballerina whose perfect exterior is shattered by a tale of thwarted love, you'll find an affirmation of life as a precarious, but worthy state. In Del Ray's music, I find an affirmation of death as a cool exterior. And I will always favour a mature idealism over a twee cynicism.

Solveig's Trail

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 01:52:00 +0000

There is an opaqueness here
that is hard to accept.
It is light and thick,
it dances behind your eyes
like cold water
ready to relieve the pressure
of the whole universe.

You are afraid that if you breath out
the symmetry of things will dissolve,
you will make the stars collapse,
the seams come undone.
And you will only be left
with a sideways glimpse of a light
that does not know how to
sit still.

You feel yourself wading in
wordless exaltation.
It teases you with the
promise of expression,
and then lies sprawled at your feet
in defeat.

Is it possible to capture it embodied
while being suspended in an abstract interlude?
It is a second skin of persistent consciousness
that doesn't want to be named.

If the music moves to its own rhythm,
so does life.
And the two briefly meet on your fingers,
touching each note in
physical sympathy.

What is this rhythm for
if not to make you more of yourself?
What is this rhythm for
if not to splinter you in time
and remind you of the delusion
of wholeness?

It is like wholeness within fragmentation,
and you think,
this is what life is for.
You will sit through as much daily boredom
as is required of beings,
if only this wordless splinter
will maintain its hold
for just
one more minute.

I will rise with you,
and fall with you,
so say the notes.
I will build an architecture
of the senses for you,
and I will lead you to a wall
where you will stop, weep, and want.

The world is momentarily cupped in your ear,
and nothing else needs to move,
or speak,
in Solveig's trail.

* * *

I know it's not Wednesday today for Poetry Wednesday, but I really just wanted to post this poem today, which I wrote last night while listening to Grieg's Solveig's Song. If you'd like to listen to it too, here it is:

I feel this intense fear everytime I press the 'publish' button on posts which contain my 'poems'. I'm still reluctant to call whatever these writings are 'poems', because I feel that real poetry is better than this. The thing is, I'm frustrated with myself because as much as these words are honest, they still seem to me to be steeped in cliche that is hard to move beyond as a writer. I wish there was an easier way of finding your own language and style without a somewhat embarrassing process of trial and error, but for me, there isn't.

I feel that so many writers try to find their own voice by imitating other writers they admire, and this often has an alienating tone to it. I'm trying to drown out other voices when I write, I'm trying to just say what I want to say without thinking about form, structure and the dreaded question of whether it's any 'good'. Maybe in ten years I'll be able to call what I write 'poems' without flinching. But for now, I think I will settle for that feeling of relief that comes with the process of emptying your mind for a little while. The process is what gives me the most pleasure, as opposed to the final product. But the final product is 'proof', right?

International Holocaust Remembrance Day

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 01:04:00 +0000

Before me sits a young woman. I cut off her hair, thick and beautiful, and she grasps my hand and begs me to remember that I too am a Jew. She knows that she is lost. 'But remember,' she says, 'you see what is being done to us. That's why my wish for you is that you will survive and take revenge for our innocent blood, which will never rest.' She has not had time to get up when a murderer who is walking between the benches lashes her on the head with his whip. Blood shows on her now shorn head. That evening, the blood of tens of thousands of victims, unable to rest, thrust itself upwards to the surface.

—From The Last Jew of Treblinka by Chil Rajchman.

Yesterday was International Holocaust Remembrance Day. In the moments right before sleep last night, I thought of a particular interview I had with a Holocaust survivor, who is also a family friend. I still have the tape with his interview. He told me a few weeks after this interview that he had confided in me things he had never even shared with his wife. I was so very young. I still am quite young, but then, I was really just a baby barely out of high school. I wasn't prepared for the full emotional responsibility of being confided in such a manner. But I accepted it, I wanted to prove to him that I was worthy of his confidence, worthy to tell his story because he could not.

I'm scared by what will happen when people like him are no longer around to confide. I'm scared too by what will happen when people like me who have heard and transcribed survivors' stories are no longer around to share them. But most of all, I'm scared by how the Holocaust is brandished as an ideological weapon, by strong waves of neo-Nazism and the belittling of Holocaust survivors in political debates around the world. Yet, I still remain optimistic because I'm heartened by people who care.

There are more eloquent words than mine being written on Holocaust Remembrance Day, and I'll leave you with a few of them:

: : Light a Candle

: : Mehdi Hasan's Article

: : The Courage to Speak Up

: : A Stand Against Neo-Nazism

: : A Holocaust Survivor Shares his Story

Image credit: Holocaust Memorial in Berlin.

Literary Love & Publishing Woes

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 00:18:00 +0000

I did a guest post for Jen from Honey Kennedy while she's away frolicking in New York (I'm not jealous at all, nope, not me). She asked her guest bloggers to compile posts on the theme of 'love', and of course, my mind immediately drifted to literary love. I picked out some of my favourite love quotes from poetry and novels, have a read of my picks here.

These beautiful words have a poignancy to them that is not simply related to their subject-matter, but also to the fact that in today's publishing climate, they would probably not get published. The trend now is to assume that such works are not 'marketable'. What are we offered instead? A book by Snooki or the Kardashians, or other pointless and inflated celebrities.

I don't think it's coincidence that my guest post for Jen materialised on her blog in the same week in which I stumbled upon Sarah Lacy's great article on the state of modern publishing, 'Confessions of a Publisher'. Lacy highlights some key points which I'd like to annotate with my own thoughts.

When you see Snooki’s book on the New York Times Best Seller List, you know publishing is in trouble. You can blame readers and say publishing is just giving the public what they want. But that’s only half the problem. The rest is a lazy publishing industry that does far too little of the work that got them here: Discovering new authors and giving them a shot. Instead, they go for the lazy lay-up: Overpaying on celebrity memoirs and pop culture phenomenons with a built in audience.

I walked into a bookstore the other day. The front of the shop was dominated with celebrity books. At the very back, squeezed into two small shelves, were some books under the heading of 'Classics'. You can guess from the layout of the shop what books the store was pushing to the public at the front, and what books it was relegating to the 'unmarketable' corner at the back. I almost didn't find the 'Classics' shelf at all, I really had to look for it. This is a metaphor for how the whole publishing industry treats books and authors these days.

You could say in the publishing industry's defence: 'well, publishing companies are a business, they have to make money. So they're simply giving the public what it wants'. The thing is, I'm not convinced that books about Snooki and the Kardashians are what we, the public, really want. It's been decided for us, it's been assumed. It's been relentlessly pushed and marketed toward us. It's sort of like what women's and gossip magazines do: they are saturated with celebrity gossip and the argument is that gossip is what sells. But if gossip is all that is provided, how do magazine editors actually know what we want? Do we really have much of a choice? It's like a self-perpetuating myth: 'this is what we're selling, because this is what you want. But what you want is what we decide you want, so this is what we'll sell'.

If publishing houses and magazine editors actually opened their eyes to peer beyond the glaring dominance of 'marketing', they would realise that part of the enormous popularity of blogs and self-published, independent books and magazines lies in the fact that people are generally tired of being sold the same old crap, and are forging their own voices. They are telling these companies, in large numbers, what they really want. Isn't it about time editors and publishers started listening?

While the familiar complaint of a diminishing publishing industry in the face of digital culture is valid, it also doesn't take into account that people are migrating to the digital world because the printed world of magazines and books is no longer providing the innovative sense of creativity they used to. You can't blame people for seeking out other avenues when the old ones are treating them like brainless fools.

Lacy suggests a call to arms for the publishing industry to better itself:

My hope is disgruntled publishing executives like the one above will quit their comfortable jobs at dysfunctional prehistoric companies and start innovating on the model. I don’t believe the public only wants books written by over-tanned drunks who go clubbing anymore than blog readers only want slideshows and posts on Apple. Someone will build the next great publishing imprint out of these ashes. And as a reader and an author, I can’t wait.

I agree with her. Someone does need to resurrect publishing houses from the ashes of celebrity culture and easily exploited genres and remind them that they used to be a source for beautiful words to be shared with the world, for new talent to be discovered. But I think the responsibility for this also lies with us, the readers and the buyers. We need to start demanding more, and demanding loudly.

I'd love to suggest you go re-read some of the quotes I've transcribed in my guest post. And then think about a world where such authors and such words don't stand a chance of getting published. Books and poetry for me aren't just printed matter on a page with a monetary value, they are priceless. They have literally pulled me out of despair and grief, they have comforted me and been my companions, they have lightened my mood after a bad day at work, and they have given me insight into our state as human beings. These endeavours should not be lost in the haze of marketing and celebrity culture. Celebrity culture is so very contaminating and I wonder when it will all stop. How much further can we exploit this dead horse? Enough should be enough, and we need to start saying this, loud and clear.

So my call to arms to anyone reading this post is to start talking about the value of the written word and the immense pleasure of drowning in a good book or discovering a new author. If it matters to you, start discussing it on blogs, Twitter and Facebook. Be heard, don't be told what you're supposed to like. And maybe if enough of us do this, someone will start to listen. Creativity and art would be nothing without innovation, and I can't think of a better time to start demanding such innovation.

Image credit: still from the French short film Faiblesses (2009).

Orient Express

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 01:15:00 +0000

One of my dreams, which I hope someday soon will become a reality, is to take a trip on the Orient Express. There has always been something appealing about long train trips for me, but the Orient Express combines my love of many other things: the unsettling process of travel, the promise of solitude, time for contemplation, historical enquiry and an abiding appreciation of quality.

The Orient Express has been the silent participant and witness of history. It has seen the signing of Germany's surrender in World War One, and in turn, France's signing of defeat by Hitler in World War Two. It has heard Josephine Baker sing a tune in the aftermath of its bombing and read Agatha Christie's literary homage in Murder on the Orient Express. It experienced famous Art Deco artists lovingly decorate its interiors with a quality, attention to detail and love for the arts which is lacking today in our bland and cost-effective trains. Its routes were halted during a divided Cold War Era, and yet it became a symbol of transcendence of borders and unity as Communist Europe came crumbling down.

The Orient Express is also a symbol of other forms of transcendence. Historically, it has put all manner of people from different social classes, nationalities and backgrounds together within its confined space, compelling a movement beyond social and personal borders. In its cosy rooms and sparkling dinning areas, I picture conversations that would otherwise have never occurred, secret romances between strangers who were never to meet again and intrigue facilitated by the throwing together of people.

The Orient Express is like a time capsule of history, but a changing and malleable one. Its history is not preserved behind inaccessible glass in a museum, but is constantly moving. It's a symbol of productive nostalgia: a nostalgia that doesn't seek to freeze the past as a single image or data, but rather one that highlights that history is constantly changing.

The sensation of the train rocking the many bodies it carried as it lulled them to sleep reminds us that their bodies too carried traces of history which they left behind in each compartment. History is embodied, not abstract fact. I imagine myself sitting within the train's interior and reenacting the same feelings experienced by all the lovers, people and travellers of the past. We will share something across the expanse of a moving history, and they will impart me with fragments and traces of the past via our common sensations.

But the most alluring aspect of the Orient Express is its introspective space. Within its interiors, you can imagine a process of closing-in on yourself, removing the mundane borders of everyday life, and being given the gift of doing nothing. It's like a movement within, into yourself; an elaborate process of contemplation that is inaccessible in the busy hum of work, grocery shopping and to-do lists. The Orient Express is like a small encapsulation of the process of travel itself: the freedom to interact with the world and with yourself without reminders of productivity. There's only pleasure.

Image credits: all images are from here and here, by Hotze Eisma photography.

Black and White

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 01:55:00 +0000

When you photograph people in color, you photograph their clothes. But when you photograph people in Black and White, you photograph their souls.

-Ted Grant

I've been trying to organise my image folders today in order to finalise the images in my book. I discovered one folder named 'black and white' that I completely forgot about. It's filled with unsorted black and white photos, I'm not sure if I've ever shared any of them before. But I felt like posting some now. There is something so appealing about the black and white aesthetic, it seems almost abstract to me. There is also something therapeutic about lining-up black and white images together.

Image credits: all images are my own.

On Feminism: Show Me Your “Proof”

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 02:12:00 +0000

It’s a common scenario: you’re reading an interesting article about feminism online, and then you scroll down to read the comments. There are usually some very insightful comments. But they are overshadowed by the amount of vitriolic and smart-arse responses. You know which type I find to be one of the most frustrating? It’s this one, masked as an “innocent” question: “but show me your proof”? Someone feigning innocence will deny that rape culture, or sexism, or misogyny, or gender inequalities exist today, and ask for “objective” proof. Or they will sometimes direct you to their own statistics of more “important” problems, as if the array of data on other social problems is somehow supposed to indicate that sexism has been done away with. As Lisa Simpson would say, that’s specious reasoning: one problem does not cancel out another.

To me, this question of “show me your proof” is basically a way of saying: “your opinions and experiences don’t count unless you show me ample documentation of something that is widely known to exist”. It’s like asking for proof that the earth is round. Saying that sexism and rape culture don’t exist without such said “proof” is like suggesting that racism is a myth, homophobia is not a problem and abuse isn’t “real” without statistical data.

The point is, my opinions and experiences as a woman should count for something. Whenever I hear this question of “show me your proof” (which, I might add, I have been asked myself), I feel like responding:

You want proof? I’ll give you proof – my proof is my experiences. My proof is getting sexually harassed by a taxi driver when all I wanted was to get from point A to point B in peace. And then feeling scared to take taxis for months. That’s called rape culture: the assumption that women’s bodies are available for any man who wants them, without consent. My proof is getting asked when I’ll have children while my brother, older than me, gets asked about his career dreams and personal life goals. That’s called being reduced to the sum of my reproductive organs rather than being treated as a human being. My proof is getting called a “little girl” when I’m well past my teenage years. That’s called infantalising women. My proof is listening to a woman having to defend a valid interpretation of a novel at a conference while a man who argues the same thing a day later gets nods of approval and uncritical silence. That’s called a tacit and unspoken agreement of male superiority.

Oh, but you need more “proof”? Okay then ...

My proof is needing male friends to come to my defence in order for someone to take me seriously. My proof is said male friends being treated like brainwashed fools when they dare to champion women’s rights. My proof is going to the movies to watch women get beaten, raped and mutilated, and having it thrust upon me as “high art”. My proof is marvelling at the stupidity of a film culture that accepts such treatment of women as “art” but takes offence at women’s consensual pleasure (right on, Ryan Gosling). My proof is walking into a bookstore and encountering a “chick lit” section, while male authors are placed in general “literature” sections.

My proof is getting told by strangers that my critical writing reads “like a man’s” and thinking this is actually a compliment to me. (Because women can’t possibly write well or rationally about serious topics. Because being “like a man” is being “superior” to other women.) My proof is browsing through men’s magazines, feeling a bit sick at how women are portrayed and talked about (sorry, it’s not “empowering” or “sexy” to be treated like a piece of meat, or an object, or a throwaway sexual toy – women are people, not things). My proof is listening to a bunch of men in a pub using feminising words as “insults” to each other. (Because being like a woman is “degrading” and “insulting”.) My proof is hearing women being referred to as “minorities” in the media despite them representing half of the world’s population. My proof is listening to the other masculine half of the population being referred to as the “mainstream”, or the benchmark “default” for humanity in general.

I could provide an endless list. But do I really need to? Do we really need to keep wasting our time “proving” the obvious? The problem with this question of “show me your proof” is that it ultimately places the burden on those who are marginalised and experience discrimination. It does not put the burden on those who are lucky enough by random birth not to experience such discrimination; it does not compel them or require them to step out of the assumption of their own privilege. If you want proof, open your eyes and look at the world around you. Plus, really, let’s stop playing coy, the people who ask for “proof” rarely actually want it, it’s often simply a derailing tactic.

So maybe a better response next time I get the “show me your proof” question would be to calmly suggest to the questioner that they should go ask someone else for proof that the earth is round, and enter into a hearty and pointless debate about that instead.

Image credits: Anti-Feminist Bingo I and II, which summarise a lot of the comments I’ve seen myself on feminist blogs and articles.

The Big List

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 03:26:00 +0000

Since I'm a prolific list-maker, I've compiled a visual list of things that have been distracting and delighting me, and generally keeping me occupied. First up, my good friends Laura and Jo have opened up a new etsy shop called Half/Half which includes 1950s-style clothes named after song titles. How clever is that? Read all about their new venture here and here.

Places I've been dreaming of living in ...

: : Pitsou Kedem Architect, Jaffa Apartement Project, found via Tel Aviv Art and Design Experiment.

: : Apartment, Paris 6th District - Saint Germain des Près/Visconti, via Emile Garcin Properties.

All things literary ...

: : Yelena's beautiful tribute to Mr. Murakami, on his 63rd birthday.

: : My copy of Neo-Victorian Families arrived, along with my essay enclosed in its pages.

: : Books I'm reading, re-reading and looking forward to reading. From top to bottom, left to right:

-Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain.
-The Secret History by Donna Tartt.
-A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan.
-Horoscopes for the Dead by Billy Collins.
-The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes.
-The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst.

Things that have been making me giggle, and nod my head in agreement ...

: : Bored to Death.

: : Gilmore Girls.

: : Black Books.

And before I go ...

: : Some posts of mine you may have missed here and here on Behind Ballet.

Also, a huge thank you for the wonderfully kind response to this post, especially to Kate, Jane and Diana for blogging about it. I almost didn't post these resolutions because I thought my writing was crappy. Just goes to show I have no perspective about myself, so I defer to your better judgement.

I'm going to be extremely busy over the next two weeks, so I apologise in advance if I don't always have the time to respond to your comments here and emails as promptly as I would like. The stress will soon be over though! Happy weekend everyone.

On Writing: What Can't be Written

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 00:44:00 +0000

I woke up this morning thinking about Jennifer Byrne's interview with Christopher Hitchens, which was recently re-screened on Australian television after his death. Although most of the interview was very interesting, one line that Hitchens said caught my attention and made the rest of the interview pale in comparison. He said that for him, one of the reasons why certain authors have a gift that others do not is bound up with music. I'm not sure what exactly he meant by this, but the way I instinctively responded to it may have little to do with what he was actually saying, and more to do with how I chose to interpret it.

Music for me encapsulates what I can't write about. It reminds me of a moment I had with a class of students a few years back where one girl asked the class to describe what jasmine smells like. The normally talkative class became silent. We tried to explain to her, but our words failed us. Certain things are beyond words. I get a similar feeling of blocked articulation whenever I listen to music, particularly classical music and my favourite, Chopin.

I used to find this frustrating, I used to take it as a sign that I'm just not a good enough writer. And I may not be a good enough writer, but that's probably not the point. The point is, maybe I'm supposed to skirt around the edges of this music, rather than fully penetrate it or understand it. In fact, some of the most prolific and enjoyable writing I've produced is ironically about the things I cannot write about.

I personally think this is why we write about love so much. Not simply because it's a fairly universal topic, but also because it's a feeling that cannot be expressed in words, but yet still compels expression. Rather than fully articulating the experience of love and desire, we skirt around its edges, we create many metaphors to probe around it, and we ultimately fail. But in failing, we produce some of the best literature.

I'm starting to see failure as productive, and perhaps even necessary for my writing. When I listened to some Chopin on the weekend, I was once again filled with this intense desire to explain to someone, somehow, what this music makes me feel. I wanted to make my feelings visible with words, to bring the notes to light, to make someone else witness my feelings by making them external. But the best I could do was come up with a few metaphors, a few symbols, a few descriptive passages of imagery inspired by the music. I sat back in my chair, waiting for that familiar feeling of disappointment when I can't seem to capture in words a strong emotion. But you know what? It didn't come. Instead, I asked myself this question: what would happen if I were able to capture this emotion, would I be happy then? The answer was a definitive 'no'.

If I were able to neatly tie-up my emotions into words and express everything I want to express, I think there would be little point in writing for me. I would just stop. And consequently, I would be lost. That's the deepest irony of all. So I'm starting to make friends with failure and blocked language, because it's simultaneously moving me forward and creating an instinct to write more. I rather like the idea that I'll still be sitting in a chair as an old woman, listening to Chopin, dancing around the edges of its notes with my words, and failing spectacularly. Maybe writing isn't about being satisfied, but about being constantly hungry. Maybe it should ask more questions than it answers. So here's to failure.

Image credit: Violinist Jascha Heifetz playing in Mili's darkened studio as light attached to his bow traces the bow movement. Photographed by Gjon Mili, New York, 1952.

My Favourite Book: Jane Flanagan

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 00:37:00 +0000

Welcome to my new book series in which I ask friends and fellow bloggers to talk about one of their favourite books. I'm so excited to introduce this new series to my blog, because it appeals to my inner nerd who just basically wants to hear people talking passionately about books. First up in the series is Jane from Ill Seen, Ill Said. I admire Jane so very much, for her skill with words, her intelligence and her kindness. When I first read the meaning behind the title of her blog, I knew I would become a regular follower of it. And incidentally, Jane's discussion of nostalgia below is also a huge topic in my own book, so I was startled by our similarities in thought. I'm quite pleased she agreed to launch this series, thank you Jane!

Hello, I'm Jane from the blog Ill Seen, Ill Said. I'm so very excited about this new series and honored Hila asked me to participate. A post like this tempts me to talk about those writers, books I return to again and again; anything by Beckett, Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being, the short stories of William Trevor or Alice Munro or my recent new love, Maggie Nelson. But, I just finished rereading A Moveable Feast (the restored edition) and am still in its thrall.

I had no idea how much I'd enjoy rereading A Moveable Feast right at this time in my life, slap-bang in my mid-thirties. I read it originally, like most people, in my early twenties. Then, being a poor writer in 1920's Paris was a heady kind of dream, something I reacted to profoundly, romantically, full of sensual and nostalgic yearning.

A decade later, I feel we've become so detrimentally seduced by nostalgia, as a style and aesthetic statement, that I wasn't sure I'd enjoy the book so much. Whenever I think about nostalgia, I think of this Billy Collins poem (coincidentally it was a recurring thought as I watched Midnight in Paris). Nostalgia creates distance between us and them, now and then. If we think of those experiences as being precisely bracketed in that time, we deprive them their universality. And we short-sell whatever magic is here now, we disavow the golden threads of time and the ongoing existence of such great people, such great places.

My disdain for nostalgia is also rooted in my country: I come from Ireland and have broad experience of nostalgia being projected onto my home. Tourists still wish the landscape there was dotted only with thatched cottages. The truth is these cottages often housed poverty and hunger. Places live and change. True, some of Ireland's growing pains are ugly manifestations of ideas about what prosperity should look like. But the alternative seems to be some disneyfied theme park of a place, preserved to sate tourists who come with expectations based mostly on movies and books set in the past.

But of course, Hemingway is not being nostalgic about Paris in the 1920's. He is simply in Paris in the 1920's (and Austria and elsewhere). Indeed, it's notable that he barely mentions Paris in other decades. He's a being-in-the-world. And to read A Moveable Feast with a romanticized view of the past is to ignore a lot of what is written in that book; which isn't mythic or romantic, but plain and poor and and personal and universal. It's about being in a city and carving out a way of living that is both intimate and shared, charged with creativity, but still negotiating material concerns, sensual desires.

What of that? Just this: A beautiful account of a man in a place he loved, poor and struggling, but occasionally affording himself and his love good food and holidays to places not yet fashionable or contrived. A man trying to write and taking that bold step of walking away from a money job, shouldering no less risk than those who quit the cubicle among my friends today. A man sitting in a cafe and observing a beautiful woman; something that happens daily in every city. All beautifully told in Hemingway's stripped-down style, honest, avoiding tweeness and lyricism.

I especially loved the passages about Hemingway's writing process; the need to finish a day of writing with a leftover idea so you could start again the next day, and also with the push and pull of a creative community; the desire to be involved with and inspired by others but also to remove yourself. I've always been a solitary, unsharing kind of writer. But carving out solitary space in the blogosphere is an oxymoronic enterprise. And that same push-and-pull is something most bloggers and writers I know struggle with.

As I carve up my own time between writing and blogging, earning and living, I appreciate more the weight of those choices. In my twenties it was a foregone conclusion that art was worth any sacrifice. In my thirties, I have rent to pay and a life of occasional luxuries I've come to like. I fight to have both, to write and to live fully. My days are often beautiful and my friends real. And Paris? Paris is, of course, a gorgeous city. But the point of A Moveable Feast is that it's unfixed, that it's in our intention rather than inherent in a specific place and time. And that's what I loved about rereading this book; it inspired me to be in my place and my time.

Image sources (from top to bottom): 1. Ernest Hemingway, 1924, 2. Ernest and Hadley Hemingway, winter 1922, 3. The Hemingways at a cafe, Pamplona, Spain, 1925.

Submarine

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 00:22:00 +0000

After I received the 13th email request to review the film, Submarine, I took the hint. I've also taken the hint about the film, Beginners, which I promise to review soon, and which I really loved. I love that people send me these film requests as some of you have introduced me to films I would not have heard of otherwise. But I digress, back to Submarine.

I first saw Submarine in the cinema and it left me feeling underwhelmed. I saw it again on DVD recently and I was even more underwhelmed by it. This is a film I wanted to like much more than I actually did. Particularly as it's written and directed by Richard Ayoade, whom I love. It has all the ingredients I typically like in films, but it left me feeling cold, like something was missing from its inherent make-up.

I'm aware that many people loved Submarine and found it incredibly clever. And I can understand why. It's intelligent, funny in places, sweetly self-conscious and abundantly intertextual. It makes numerous visual and cinematic references to its screen predecessors. If you examine the film carefully, you'll find homages to, and direct visual "quotations" from, various films, such as The Four Hundred Blows, Harold & Maude, Amelie, Lolita and The Royal Tenenbaums. It's an extremely self-conscious film that wears its mode of postmodern pastiche on its sleeve quote obviously. While this is clever, it's not actually balanced by anything else to make it involving.

Ostensibly, all these intertextual references are supposed to feed-into the film's two main plot lines: Oliver's teenage romance with his somewhat unpleasant girlfriend, Jordana, and his plan to break-up the romance between his mother and their silly neighbour, thus saving his parents' marriage. This is all done in a quirky manner, and nothing is sentimentalised, unlike many other teenage romance films. But it was quirk without much charm for me I'm afraid. I felt like the film was overwhelmed by all the knowing references it sought to make, to the extent that it began to feel like a catalogue of the director's knowledge about films and film history.

But there's another side of me that simply doesn't understand why I didn't enjoy Submarine. There are many films that display the same sense of self-consciousness and intertextual references to other films which I love. So technically, I should have loved this film too. And since so many banal and stupid movies are made on a regular basis, I should have thoroughly appreciated a clever film such as this one. I just didn't connect with it though. I understood this film intellectually, but it didn't grab me in any other way. And for me, films that are memorable are those that move between the intellect and the heart, between the mind and instinct.

I'm really interested to hear other opinions about this film because I wonder if I'm the only one who feels this way about it. And if you'd like to convince me otherwise, I'm open to be convinced! Like I said, I really wanted to like Submarine, so maybe I missed something that others have not. Has anyone else seen it?

Tagged

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 01:04:00 +0000

I was tagged by the lovely Joy last year (I can't believe I just typed 'last year'). It has taken me a while to do this tag, so I do apologise to Joy. But it's better late than never. Since I've done so many of these tags over the past few years of blogging, I doubt that there's any mystery left about me when it comes to random facts. I'll give it my best shot, but I'm afraid I will have to cheat on some of the rules ...

: : Rules:

1. You must post these rules (okay then, done).
2. Each person must post 11 things about themselves on their blog (check).
3. Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post, and create 11 new questions for the people you tag to answer (questions answered, but I don't have the energy at the moment to create new ones).
4. You have to choose 11 people to tag and link them on the post (er, sorry, going to skip this one - I've tagged way too many people in the past).
5. Go to their page and tell them you have linked him or her (sorry again).
6. No tag backs (and again).
7. No stuff in the tagging section about ‘you are tagged if you are reading this.’ You legitimately have to tag 11 people (my, we are insistent with the rules, aren't we? I'm a rebel, I say no).

: : 11 Things About Me:

1. I was born in Ramat-Gan, Israel.

2. My first name (Hila) means something like 'aura' in Hebrew, and my last name (Shachar) means 'dawn'. Our last family name was largely my grandfather's invention however, as he changed it from Wiesenstern to the more Israeli-sounding 'Shachar'.

3. I've been told I have various types of accents when I speak certain words in English. They range from American, English to oddly, Russian accents. I personally don't get it. The only time I've heard myself speak is through recorded lectures and I sound like I have a subtle Australian accent when speaking English, which makes sense.

4. It's a joke in my family that physically, I'm a cross between three women: my two grandmothers and my great-grandmother. I inherited dark eyes and hair from my Moroccan grandmother, fair European skin that burns readily in Australia from my Polish grandmother and my small body structure from my tiny, waif-like great-grandmother. That's where our similarities end however as she gave birth to 14 children, and I have no intention of doing that!

5. I used to devour Sweet Valley High and V. C. Andrews books when I was little. My brother still makes fun of me for this literary crime.

6. The first band I obsessed about was Guns n' Roses, courtesy of my brother's influence.

7. I'm deeply superstitious of writing in the last page of a notebook, and I always leave it blank.

8. I love everything about the sight, smell and taste of peaches - including their name. The word just rolls off your tongue like something sweet.

9. I am so very bad at accepting compliments, and I fear I hurt people's feelings who so graciously offer them. I respond better to (constructive) criticism, because it fires me up and doesn't make me feel like a fraud.

10. I really think I'm way too sensitive, and would prefer not to be.

11. I can devour a huge bowl of chips but eating a handful of sweets makes me feel quite sick.

: : And now for Joy's questions:

1. If you could be anyone for a day (could be fictional/historical), who would it be?
I don't really have a specific person in mind when it comes to such questions because I basically want to enter the head of many smart people and poke around in their brains for a while. I'm really curious by the process of music composition, so I suppose I'd like to be a composer for a day.

2. Field Notes or Moleskines?
Moleskines, I have many.

3. What is the last thing you ate?
Toast with butter and honey.

4. If you can be anywhere you want right now, where would it be?
In my aunt's holiday house in Brittany. Her husband inherited this house from his family and it's one of my favourite places on earth.

5. If you could go back in time and change any historical event, what would it be?
I wouldn't, I'd probably just mess everything up.

6. What is your favourite piece of clothing in your wardrobe right now?
A pair of nondescript black ballet shoes and a large black jumper, left behind by an old boyfriend. Both are well-worn and well-loved.

7. Which would you prefer if you had to pick either one, Zara or H&M?
Honestly, there's not much difference to me.

8. Morning person or night owl?
I write and think better really early in the morning, but I sometimes have bursts of creativity in the middle of the night. I'm more of a morning person, but night can be productive too.

9. What is the last thing you do before you go to bed?
Well, that depends on who happens to be in bed with me (ahem). If I'm alone, I usually read.

10. Favourite smell in the world? (No perfumes allowed)
If you get right close to them, most people smell delicious at the nape of their neck. It must be a combination of natural smell and shampoo. Mind you, this doesn't apply to smelly people on public transportation.

11. Most important lesson learnt in 2011?
Stress less. Unless it really is the end of the world, nothing is that bad.

P.S. Yes, the photo above is of mini-me. And thanks so much for responding with such kindness to my New Year 'Poem'.

This Year

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 00:44:00 +0000

This year, I will
spend more time at the beach,
with sand between my toes.

This year, I will
give up on the goal of less coffee
because more coffee means more pleasure,
and some vices are good.
I will indulge in a second piece of cake when offered,
and ironically stop worrying
that I'm so permanently skinny.
Who cares.

This year, I will
stop saying yes
when I really mean no,
and stop saying no
when I'm too afraid to say yes.
I will stop caring what perfect strangers think,
and hold close the opinions
of those who care for me.

This year, I will
leave aside mandatory daily moments for
savouring the first sip of coffee
rather than chugging it down in a rush,
prolonged belly rubs for a furry friend called Kobi
rather than distracted pats,
five minutes of daydreaming
rather than relentless mental list-making,
a few seconds of smelling my perfume
rather than carelessly putting it on.

This year, I will
write
so very much,
just for my own pleasure
and no-one else.
I will take time to enjoy words
rather than edit them.
I will marvel at their simplicity
and unknowability,
especially those untranslatable ones:

Cafuné (Brazilian Portuguese): The act of tenderly running your fingers through someone's hair.

I will also run my fingers through someone's hair,
while thinking of these words.

This year, I will
be more protective of my time,
it's in short supply these days.

This year, I will
stop making lists of things
I cannot possibly hope to achieve,
or even want to undertake.
But I will write a new list
if I don't have the
courage, sense, or wisdom,
to follow this one.

* * *

Happy new year!

Image credit: a day at the Beach, 1931.

Thank You & Happy Holidays

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 06:12:00 +0000

I was watching the BBC's latest version of Tess of the D'Urbervilles last night, and the first couple of scenes in which Tess seemingly evaporates into the beauty of the misty landscape in her pure white dress lingered like perfume. What I always seem to want this time of year is to travel. The end-of-year holiday period makes me miss my friends and family overseas even more. But since I can't realistically afford to travel, I go on imaginative travel through the screen instead. And I want to take you all along with me on this imaginary travel. I can't think of a better way to say thank you, and to round-up this year of posts on my blog.

This is my last post for the year, as I'd like to take a small break till next year. This would sound dramatic if 'next year' wasn't just under two weeks away. I can't believe December is nearly over, and I'm generally wondering where this year went. But before I say goodbye to this year and hello to the next, I want to take a moment to say a very big thank you to everyone who has read and commented on this blog in the past year.

I can honestly say that one of my favourite things about my blog are the comments left by you guys. This is my way of showing you all how much I appreciate them. I've mentioned many times how hard it is to put yourself out there, to share your ideas and opinions on such a public forum. And while it hasn't been perfect, it has been immensely rewarding for me. I still go through periods where I wonder why anyone reads this blog at all, so thank you.

Besides Tess's wistful landscape, here are a few more places I'd like to take you ...

: : Catherine Moorland's many contemplative rooms, from ITV's Northanger Abbey.

: : Cathy's room at Thrushcross Grange, from ITV's Wuthering Heights.

: : The Cobb in Lyme Regis, from ITV's Persuasion.

: : The hauntingly beautiful dream-space of the stage, from Black Swan.

: : The Temple of Apollo, Stourhead Garden, Wiltshire, England, from Joe Wright's Pride and Prejudice.

: : Christine's rose-filled dressing room at the Paris Opera House, from Joel Schumacher's The Phantom of the Opera.

: : Sun-baking in an English garden, from the Poirot episode, 'Taken at the Flood'.

Alas, that was a short trip. But here's to an adventure-filled 2012. Next year will be filled with excitement for me, as it'll mean the publication of my first book. I'm looking forward to that moment when I hold a copy in my hands. And I also have many plans for this blog, one of which involves an idea I've been discussing with some friends and colleagues: starting our own online literary magazine. I want to take this seriously and do it properly, so right now, I'm seeking advice from various people with more experience in the field.

I hope you all have some exciting plans tucked away under your sleeves as well. Have a lovely Christmas or Hanukkah (like me), and a wonderful New Year. Thank you again, from the bottom of my heart. I'll see you all in the first few days of January!

Bits and Pieces

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 01:20:00 +0000

I wanted to share a few bits and pieces I've been collecting on my various internet places (or shall we call them, endless forms of procrastination): Pinterest, Tumblr, Twitter and Other Blogs. Occasionally, I stumble upon things too great not to share here.

: : I wrote a guest post for The Australian Film Institute's blog on the film, Somersault. I hope you enjoy!

: : This amazing telegraph, featuring Tolstoy.

: : This beautiful photo of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes with their first child. I love how young and vulnerable Plath looks here.

: : 101 ways to use a cat: Bookmark, taken by roxeteer. Cute and functional.

: : These extracts from Emma Thompson’s diaries while shooting Sense and Sensibility, from The Sense and Sensibility Screenplay and Diaries (sent to me by Marina). Here are some of my favourites:

WEDNESDAY 19 APRIL: Paparazzi arrived for Hugh [Grant]. We had to stand under a tree and smile for them.

Photographer: ‘Hugh, could you look less - um - ’

Hugh: ‘Pained?’

SATURDAY 13 MAY: Overheard later:

Kate: ‘Oh God, my knickers have gone up my arse.’

Alan [Rickman]: ‘Ah. Feminine mystique strikes again.’

SATURDAY 3 JUNE: Very nice lady served us drinks in hotel and was followed in by a cat. We all crooned at it. Alan to cat (very low and meaning it): ‘Fuck off.’ The nice lady didn’t turn a hair. The cat looked slightly embarrassed but stayed.

THURSDAY 22 JUNE: Noon. Finish scene with Alan.

Me: ‘Oh! I’ve just ovulated.’

Alan (long pause): ‘Thank you for that.’

Hilarious.

: : New edition of Brick Magazine (found via Jane). I especially like Grant Buday's essay, ‘Old Paper’. Here's an extract:

Not that I’ve anything against e-books and Kindles. Some day I’ll likely buy one and be thoroughly impressed. But can you throw it at the cat or flatten a roach, can you hide things in it, use it as a filing system, or dribble wax onto the back cover and stick a candle on it to enhance the atmosphere of a faraway room and, in those flickering shadows, make love?

Amen.

: : This Mitchell and Webb Pride and Prejudice Parody.

And lastly, thank you so much everyone for your amazing comments on my Synesthesia and the Way We See Colour post below. Your responses are truly fascinating. Have a great weekend everyone.

Synesthesia & the Way We See Colour

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 00:40:00 +0000

I mentioned once or twice on this blog that I have something called Synesthesia. This is by no means anything serious, it's sort of like a reverse form of colour-blindness in that it adds more colour perception to everyday life. When I was little, I didn't realise that not everyone 'saw' colour where I saw it. For example, when someone said a day of the week, or when I thought of a specific day, my head seemed to be flooded with a specific colour, which I would 'see' throughout the day. I've done up a small example above of how I 'see' the days of the week. But this also extends to other areas in my life: how I 'see' films, books, months, years, and so on. It's really quite difficult to describe because ostensibly, we're not supposed to 'see' or visualise through colour things like days or weeks in the same way that we would perhaps recognise a banana as yellow, or the sky as blue. But even those basic things we take for granted (the sky is blue, the grass is green, blood is red), aren't in themselves objectively observed, even if we think they are.

I watched a fascinating BBC documentary last night on how we see colour differently and alike. I was so drawn to this documentary that I felt like I had to write about it today, so I won't forget. The documentary sought to explore the main question of, do we all see the same colours? And the answer was suitably complex. What it shows is that colour is not an objective quality - a banana isn't really yellow, but we interpret it as such. Another way of putting this is that colour is not just 'seen' through the eyes, but created in your brain. This is pretty basic science, I know. But since I'm not a scientist, I approach this differently; it kind of opens up an interpretive door for me, creatively.

I come from a cultural studies background. So the suggestion that colour perception is dependent upon subjective qualities like the memories you carry, the moods you feel, the language you speak and the culture that you inhabit, seems to provide direct links between scientific and cultural understanding. In the documentary, there was a specific case study used as evidence to show that culture and environment play a large part in how we perceive and 'see' colour. A small African tribe, which only has 5 words for colours, as opposed to the general 12 words in most Western countries, couldn't differentiate between blue and green. Both colours looked the same to them. Yet, they were able to tell the difference between two shades of green, which look the same to most Westerners. The members of this tribe also referred to water as 'white' and the sky as 'black', which seems totally incomprehensible to most Westerners. This experiment sought to show that language and culture play a significant role in how our brain interprets the colours around us, and that even basic things like the colour of water and the sky, are not the same around the world.

Isn't this just amazing? Don't you feel in awe of our brains when you find out stuff like this? I don't know why, but one of the ideas that popped into my head as I was watching this documentary was design blogs and colour. I wonder, how much of their appeal lies in the way they 'speak' to our colour perception? For example, some of my favourite posts on design blogs are about colour-coordinated designs. There is something about this colour coordination that instinctively appeals to me, like the smell of something good. In that sense, are our responses to surface design really that 'superficial', or are our brains simply responding to colour as a symbol of both our personal and cultural history?

Even in Western countries, while we may have common colour vision when it comes to most basic things, the personal way we see a colour when we're sad, happy, remember something, can be different. We may see the sky as blue, but maybe our individual perception of 'blue' is vastly different. This brings me back to my discussion of Synesthesia. It occurred to me that while my brain sees the basics like everyone else around me in my culture, it adds extra colour associations where technically, there shouldn't be any. And these associations are based on my individuality. I've filled this post with some of the shades/colour-coordinations that appeal to me for various reasons because they recall sensory experiences, books I've loved and involuntary colour associations I make. But this one in particular represents a connection I have between colour and scent:

This is a colour association I make when I put on my favourite perfume. I wonder if the reason I love this perfume so much has anything to do with its actual scent, and more to do with the colour it evokes for me. Who knows. But isn't it fun to think about these things?

I've heard that Synesthesia is fairly common, does anyone else happen to have it?

EDIT: Sorry guys, I forgot to mention that the documentary is called 'Do you see what I see?' And the tribe it investigates is called the Himba tribe.

On Feminism: ‘What About the Men?’

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 03:10:00 +0000

When I began writing this post, I wondered whether I was opening a can of worms that I shouldn't. You see, every time I post about feminism and talk about women's issues on my blog or twitter, I get angry emails asking me "but what about the men?" As if talking about women's rights immediately excludes men. It doesn't, it means focusing on women, which is my right to do as this is ultimately my blog. And then, last week, I had to delete a bunch of aggressive comments from one of my feminism posts which basically implied that because I highlight the problems women face in society and culture, I'm therefore excluding men. Wrong again. I left one anonymous man's comment, because at least he had the decency to be polite and not threaten me or use hostile language.

I won't tolerate being intimidated. I've worked too hard for my ideas, my beliefs and opinions. They have come to me through hard work and personal experiences, they are not things I throw around for the sake of theory. I believe everything I write here. So while it may be easier to keep quiet about such things, I suspect the whole point of such emails and comments is to make me, like so many other women, shut up. This is a strategy used by many misogynists on the internet to shut down discussion on pertinent topics that relate to women, as if there is something wrong with highlighting the position of women.

Men have historically enjoyed a biased privilege. This is just an historical fact, not an attack against men. We can't really talk about these topics in a mature manner if we blindly ignore history and engage with the history of male privilege in a disingenuous manner. The fact that we are now starting to redress this balance by talking about women does not signal that feminists are trying to exclude men, or "hate" men. This is a rather childish and simplistic response to feminism, and also suggests a distinct lack of empathy or willingness to understand how other people experience the world and daily life. When I think of all the significant relationships and life-long friendships that I have with the men in my life who understand and support my perspective, it seems ridiculous to me to even have to justify my position. I ultimately don't think the emails I've gotten are about the sender's own gender, but more about their level of maturity and empathy. This is not an "us" versus "them" paradigm. I am not attacking men, I'm interrogating misogyny and sexists assumptions.

One of the best responses to this topic that I've found on the internet, is this article, which I urge you to read in full. But I find that I have to quote large chunks of it here because it says everything that I feel about this subject:

When you read a post where a woman describes her rape trauma, and someone comes in and says “Well, men get raped too, what about the men?”, they’re not saying “We’re all potential victims of sexual assault, look at how awful this is, let’s examine it as one entity called “human” that is opposed to this type of behavior in all of its forms.” What they ARE saying is “STFU, woman. This isn’t just a woman problem, so you’re not allowed to talk about it in any terms that acknowledge your womaness, or gender as a factor at all. We don’t care that rape statistics show that women are much, much, more likely to be raped than straight cis men. ... Straight cis men get raped too. Therefore this is a non-story and you really shouldn’t be talking about it. Especially not in any context that we don’t agree with or approve of.”

That’s why “But what about the menz?” is a meme in feminist circles. It’s because we see that idea ALL THE GODDAMN TIME. If we talk about about anything related to harassment, anything related to how we experience the world on a day to day basis, some asshole will come in and say “Men could conceivably experience that too, YOUR ARGUMENT IS IRRELEVANT.” It’s a derailing tactic. A way of telling us to Shut The Fuck Up, and center the conversation around the people that matter: straight white cis guys.

It’s a reminder that if we make the conversation about us and our own experiences, and we don’t go out of our way to acknowledge those straight, cis white guys … well, clearly it’s because WE are excluding THEM, and it has nothing to do with their inability to identify with us. Because they’re the default. So you can’t talk about human experience in female terms and have it not be automatically exclusionary to the guys that you are not talking about.

...

And as a feminist, let me say this: Guys, I understand that bad things happen to you. I understand that you experience rape, harassment, problems related to sexuality and your masculinity. I get that. When I talk about me? It’s not because I’m refusing to talk about you. You’re allowed in. Share your stories, but stop acting like there’s something wrong with me if I don’t talk about yours every single time I talk about mine.

I really couldn't agree more, and have nothing else to add. This article says it all, so go on, read it.

P.S. All comments are now moderated on this blog. This is not just because of misogynist comments, but also because of annoying spam/advertising. I also won't allow derogatory remarks to be part of this blog (usually under the guise of anonymous). In general, I've been noticing an increase in downright mean-spirited comments on other blogs lately. This is truly baffling, and completely unnecessary. Let's be kind to one another.

Image credit: image from here, picturing the wonderful Bill Bailey.

Advice on Doing a PhD: Funding

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 02:16:00 +0000

One of the most recurring email topics I get is requests for advice regarding doing a PhD. I get questions like: Should I do a PhD? What’s the process like? How do you prepare a PhD proposal/application? How many years does it take? How do you begin to write? How easy is it to get an academic job when you finish (oh dear, I will have to crush some dreams answering this one)? And so on, and so on. It takes me ages to answer these emails, and I think it might be more logical to start answering the topics raised in these emails here. I wanted to condense all the questions I’ve received into one post, but when I started to write it, I realised how unrealistic that is. Each question alone deserves a single post devoted to it, if not more. So I’m using this post to kick-off what will be a series of posts devoted to advice about doing a PhD. Hopefully, I’ll also include other people’s experiences and tips, besides my own, in future posts.

I do want to point out that while I’m happy to share my experiences and offer any tips I can, everything I write is based on my own personal experiences. Undertaking a PhD is just like everything else in life: a varied and subjective process. There may be people who have done a PhD who will disagree with me, and that’s totally fine. I really don’t claim to be any sort of authority. I’m also no expert, so I suggest that if you want some truly sound advice about what the process of doing a PhD is like, it might be best to contact the department or Graduate Research School at the university in which you are thinking of undertaking a PhD. They will provide you with the most accurate advice.

I thought it would be a good idea to start with the most popular question I get: how on earth do you fund a PhD? Here’s my funding story ...

The only way I could afford to do a PhD myself was because I was awarded two scholarships that acted as a salary while I was undertaking it. I also did some teaching at the university and a paid teaching internship, which helped out a lot. The conditions for these scholarships required that I did not undertake more than 8 hours of extra paid work a week while I was being funded by the scholarships. The purpose of this is of course to make you focus on your PhD and not get distracted. But PhD scholarships, even the top ones, aren’t exactly a high salary – we’re talking minimum wage here (and lower). In some cases, I’m not sure they alone would cover everyone’s living expenses, depending on where you live and what other responsibilities you have in your life. For example, people with children and families, or with high rent, would suffer under the low wage of scholarship money. I only had to take care of myself, so I managed. So even if you are planning to apply for PhD scholarships to fund your candidature, depending on your particular financial and family situation, you might like to consider saving up for a while before undertaking a PhD, so you have back-up funds.

There are two main ways that you can fund a PhD: a scholarship, or your own personal funds. Some people work full-time, part-time, and casual jobs while doing a PhD. This is tough. You have to consider that doing a PhD is itself a full-time job, and it sometimes requires more hours than a full-time job, especially when you get to the later stages. Many people who work alongside doing a PhD have to resort to applying for a part-time PhD candidature, rather than a full-time one. While this gives you more time to complete the PhD and work alongside it, be aware that it will also mean extending the PhD process by a good few years, which can be annoying.

Although the majority of my PhD was funded via scholarships, they are generally only awarded for an average of three years in Australia for full-time students (I’m not sure what the deal is in America, the UK, or elsewhere), with the possibility of about 6 months extension. Nobody that I know has finished a PhD in three years. It would be naive to assume you could realistically do this, unless you’re an incredible genius. I finished my PhD in about 4 and a half years. So when my scholarship money ran out, I lived on savings, and when they ran out, I went back to work. These last few months of working and finishing the PhD were the toughest in my life and I really don’t recommend doing this unless you absolutely have to. Ideally, it would have been great to have more savings, so basically, my advice is, scholarship or no scholarship, save some money before you start!

As for actually getting scholarships, this is often a matter of how good your previous academic record is. Both of my scholarships were awarded based on academic merit, and one of them I received for being the highest ranked student in the Faculty of Arts for the year that I had applied for a PhD. I knew I wanted to do a PhD when I was undertaking my undergraduate and Honours degree, so I worked my butt off to get good grades. When I applied for a PhD, I also applied for the general government scholarships available at my university. I didn’t know this at the time, but applying for these general scholarships also put me in the running for other, privately funded scholarships. I received a government scholarship (Australian Postgraduate Award) and a second privately funded scholarship, based on my high ranking. So it’s a good idea to ask scholarship/graduate administration what other scholarships may be available that you may not know of.

If your aim is a scholarship, my general advice is to do the best work you can before even undertaking a PhD, and deliver good grades and marks. There really aren’t any shortcuts with this. So many people leave these considerations to the last minute, scrambling to catch-up on their grades in their last semester as undergraduates or Honours. I worked hard right from the first year of university, and got my act together during the second semester of my first year as an undergraduate. This may sound too early, but honestly, it’s not, and it does pay off in the end.

Like I said though, the situation regarding funding and obtaining scholarships may be vastly different in other countries, and my own experiences are based specifically in an Australian context. But I hope this helps. If anyone has anything to add with regard to this topic of funding, feel free to do so in the comments section. I’d be interested to hear other people’s stories.

P.S. Getting funds to undertake research overseas, at museums, other libraries/universities, etc., as well as funding for attending conferences (a big part of doing a PhD for some), is a whole other matter, and will be addressed separately in the future.

Image credits: all images are from the legendary PhD Comics by Jorge Cham.

Because

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 01:27:00 +0000

It is easy to love you
because you are light
like a ball I roll on
the floor
diagonally, back and forth
till you hit the side of the
wall with a protracted
thud.

It is easy to sink into you
because you are like dampness in
the bottom strands of my
hair
stubbornly dripping a trail
on my toes.

It is easy to want you
because we are apart
and your skin and the crumpled side of
your bed
are now tokens of unreasonable fondness
that linger like a glass of milk
on your bedside table
with its ring of mould festering,
unwashed.

It is easy to need you
because I am all awake in the dark,
counting the sounds my fingers
make,
on the side of my thigh.

* * *

Words by me.

I've set myself a small challenge for Poetry Wednesday poems: to be brave and share even those poems of mine that I find unbearably cliche, personal and honest; and to leave them unadorned - no images, no protective cover of beautiful pictures to take the edge off. I hope this isn't just pure silliness, and I hope you enjoy.

The Marriage Plot

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 00:35:00 +0000

I was browsing through Sundari Carmody's photography on the weekend, struck by how her images managed to capture the tone and style of The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides. Her photographs here express visually what I loved about the novel: its unique drift from clarity to obscurity in its representation of love, intimacy and identity. And above all, its suggestion of love and loss as deeply entwined. I find it hard to express why her images are so appropriate for my thoughts here, so I hope it becomes apparent as I write.

I finished reading The Marriage Plot recently, and I devoured it quickly. It's an easy book to read, despite its foray into academic theory. There has been a somewhat mixed reaction to Eugenides's latest novel, after his Pulitzer Prize-winning, Middlesex. I can understand, for example, why so many were disappointed with the briefness of his latest novel. The Marriage Plot suggests a narrative structure that has much potential to be deepened. But I liked it, simple as that. There's an honesty, humour and maturity to this novel that I enjoyed, and it gave voice to a lot of doubts and unspoken feelings that occur within an intimate relationship.

The plot of the novel is simple. Eugenides creates a love triangle between three college students at Brown University in the early 1980s: Madeleine, a relatable heroine who harbours a deep love for Victorian literature; Leonard, a brilliant biology student who suffers from manic depression and with whom Madeleine falls in love; and Mitchell, a Religious Studies student who in turn falls in love with Madeleine. This is a story about familiar experiences: coming of age, life after college/university, love, loss, the complexity of sharing your life with someone else. It is told in an unpretentious manner and appeals to a sense of common humanity. It's also brilliantly written, taking you inside the mind of the characters with a skill very few authors possess.

If I were to name one big flaw which personally bothered me about The Marriage Plot, it would be that Madeleine should have been developed to the same extent as Leonard and Mitchell. If one of the basic premises of the novel is Eugenides's reworking of the traditional marriage plot found in nineteenth-century literature, then he needed to give her a more developed characterisation. After all, the marriage plot was based around female characters, giving women one of the few artistic avenues via which to explore significant social issues. There was potential for Eugenides to modernise such a plot with Madeleine, but I often felt she got lost in the more dominant characterisations of Leonard and Mitchell.

Still, this novel is full of insight and humour, poking fun at those who take themselves too seriously. For example, one poser student in Madeleine's Semiotics 211 class in college grandiosely proclaims that "Books aren't about 'real life.' Books are about other books" (p. 28). There are very few books that capture all the pretentious posing and pseudo-rebellion that so many enact in their university years. There's always one person in a group who likes to string together well-rehearsed philosophical statements, borrowed from other people's minds, in an attempt to sound cool. Eugenides not only satirises this type of "coolness" culture in academia, but also seeks to move beyond it. He shows us that books aren't just about other books, they are also about real life. They provide glimpses into our vulnerabilities, our flaws and the incompleteness of our lives. They comfort us, support us. In the face of pretentious posing, Eugenides presents the literary word as a form of sincerity rather than erudite alienation.

Madeleine herself only becomes interested in her Semiotics class when she is introduced to Roland Barthes's A Lover's Discourse: an indescribable book about the complexities of being in love. She responds to it by relating it directly to her own life: "The more she thought about it, the more Madeleine understood that extreme solitude didn't just describe the way she was feeling about Leonard. It explained how she'd always felt when she was in love. It explained what love was like and, just maybe, what was wrong with it" (p. 53).

Madeleine doesn't approach A Lover's Discourse as theory but as reality. Which is how I think most theoretical positions should be tested. I don't see the point of theory for theory' sake, I want theory to open a door into my life, not shut me from it. Madeleine's approach to Barthes summarises how I often reacted to theoretical texts when I was an undergraduate student, and her statement about the loneliness of being in love is a prime example. Is there anything more strange than being in love? A state which is supposed to bind you intimately with another person, but which ironically also results in showing you the limits of truly understanding another human being.

This is honesty, there are no idealised flights into romantic "oneness" with Eugenides. We are fed by an unhealthy dose of idealised love, and when it doesn't meet these high expectations, when another human being doesn't "complete" us, we revert to disappointment. Eugenides shows us that it's actually okay to feel loneliness and that other people don't exist to complete us, they have their own stories to live out. When Madeleine later questions the wisdom of falling in love with a manic depressive, she realises that life doesn't offer an ideal marriage plot, and that "to feel so much was its own justification" (p. 126). In many ways, Eugenides provides an alternative theory of love based on what we actually feel, rather than what we think we should feel.

I would have liked this to have been explored fuller. When the pages ended, I realised I wanted more. This may be a bit of a shortcoming in the novel, but it also signifies the extent to which it was successful in drawing me into its world, leaving me with questions that I wanted answered.

Has anyone read The Marriage Plot? If so, what did you think of it?

Image credits: All images are by Sundari Carmody and are used here with permission. Visit her website, flickr and blog to see more of her work. Thanks Sundari.

Underscore Magazine

noreply@blogger.com (Hila) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 02:23:00 +0000

I contributed an article to the latest issue of Underscore Magazine, the Fight Issue. I have to admit, I was a bit nervous about publishing this article as it's one of the most personal things I've shared in print. Here's a peek at my article:

I'm a huge fan of Underscore Magazine, so I was thrilled to be asked to contribute (and I might be contributing to their next issue as well). Everything about this magazine, from its tone, writing, photography, approach and philosophy, appeals to me and my sensibility. This is the kind of magazine that appeals to both your senses and intelligence, that doesn't talk down to you or try to convince you to buy a zillion things you don't actually need, but speaks to your creativity, humanity and imagination. So I feel honoured to be a (small) part of it.

Underscore Magazine also recently won the Presidentʼs Design Award, Singaporeʼs most prestigious design accolade. If you look through just a small sample of its pages, you'll know why. Here are a few of the other great articles in the latest issue:

You can pick up a copy of Underscore Magazine on their online shop, and read more about it here.

All images are copyrighted to Underscore Magazine, all rights reserved.