sept/oct 2013
bettie the premier issue
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contents bettie
featured artists
32 Sarah Koval
The ready-to-wear designer tells us how to be chic with just ten essentials.
37 Tatyana Fazlalizdeh A street artist using her work to start a dialogue with the urban patriarchy.
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Cassandra Srager
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Examining the beautiful darkness in this photographer’s work.
fiction
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nonfiction
“Taking Off”
by Camilla Fratturato A young couple is forced to examine their marriage while delayed in an airport.
“Tales from a Cuban Kitchen” by Danica Benitez
A personal essay exploring the relationship between the author and her abuela, and the power of good food.
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Is the Pin Up Feminist? Lacrista Greco exaines contemporary pin up fandom among women and whether we can take back the traditionally sexist image.
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COREY CULVER HELFORD GALLERY CITY, CA 310 256 2340 COREYHELFORDGALLERYCOM
8522 WASHINGTON BOULEVARD
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bettie
contents living well
20 30 Amazing Health Hacks 21
Awesome Autmumn Recipes:
Gluten free and vegan, too!
From having more energy, to stopping a nosebleed or calming nerves and everything in between.
flash
24 Broken Men Were Her Specialty 26 Chloroform
by jacqueline thomas
by janette kim larson
crafty
dye-job
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21 cool ways to use a paperclip
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The basics of being your own colorist plus how to keep hair damage to a minimum.
illustration by yumi sakugawa
sounding off
Bettie of the Month
A brief interview with this issue’s favorite Bettie, burlesque star Dita Von Teese.
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Horizontal Transmission by rebecca hattersley
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happenings
hard rock, high tech:
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gallery roundup
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Bettie’s Best
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How some artists are innovating the market using mobile apps and social media.
Shows you should know about and artists on the rise from around the country.
Reviews of the best in new releases including movies, music, and books.
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From the Editor
“I was never the girl next door.” - Bettie Page
When my partners and I set out to start this magazine, we wanted to create a publication not just for women and by women, but a magazine that shines a light on up-andcoming female artists around the country in a way that no other publication we know has. With this premier issue, I think that we’ve done that, and I hope you agree. You might be asking yourself, who’s Bettie? In popular culture, the name Bettie has numerous connoations. From Bettie Page to Bettie Boop, Betty White to Bette Davis, to just being, like, a total betty— it’s a name that represents all kinds of amazing women, with sex appeal, humor, style, and intelligence. To us, a Bettie is brainy and beautiful. A Bettie is fearsome. A Bettie is a badass bitch. A Bettie is you, our reader— a woman with an intellectual curiosity and a taste for great art. And we couldn’t be happier to have you! For our premier issue, we’ve brought together a diverse and talented group of artists, both visual and literary, for you to enjoy. From street artist Tatyana Fazlalizdeh’s confrontational and stunning street portraits to a personal essay about life with a Cuban grandma by Danica Benitez, each woman offers a unique story, and a beautiful perspective on the world. I hope you enjoy the work of all these women as much as I have and that you can see what a Bettie you are. Sincerely,
es Jeni Jeffre Jeni Jeffrees Editor in Chief bettiemag.com
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flash
flash fiction:
Chloroform story by jaqueline thomas
Amber pooled around the base of her neck, hardening her soft hair. Beneath the tree, she lay prostrate like a goddess waiting for her portrait. Cold calloused fingers curled into makeshift fists. X-Rays would later reveal butterflies in her empty stomach. Yellow pollen dusted her cheeks making her freckles pop and her skin glow like death. Zealous, the papers called him when they caught him. Anyone could have told you he was off. Strawberry-blonde hairs in his backseat and a DNA test revealed she was, at one point, with him. Chloroform wasn’t supposed to hurt.
About the Author Jaqueline Thomas is currently completing her final semester as a Writing, Literature and Publishing student at Emerson College. She is working on a collection of flash fiction, and hopes to work both as writer, and as an elemetary education teacher, inspiring her students to write.
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featured artist
UN STITCHED Inside the mind of designer Sarah Koval— her process, inspiration, and everything in between on the road to her much-anticipated 2015 collection. by stephanie zhang
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“I WENT THROUGH A TUTU PHASE when I was a kid, like a lot of little girls. Except the difference was that I wore [the tutus] on my head. I think that basically sums up my aesthetic as a designer [laughs]. What I mean is, I try to make everything feminine, but with a twist. It’s the small details, I think, that make the biggest statements.” When I sit down with Sarah Koval for our interview, she is in her studio with several pins sticking out of her mouth. With the pins still carefully dangling from her berry lips, she grits an apology and asks for a minute or two to finish pinning her pattern to the dress-form. A studio assistant takes over before she finally sits down. “Getting ready for shows is… an experience. Let’s just say, I don’t get much sleep before or after. It’s worth it, though, in the long run.” By her own admission, though, the pre-show madness has gotten much easier, now that Koval can afford multiple studio assistants to be with her, putting on all the final touches round-the-clock. It was, in fact, as a studio assistant that Koval got her first real taste of the high stakes fashion game at Proenza Schouler, a few years bettiemag.com
after earning her BFA in Fashion Design from the Massachusetts College of Art & Design. It was an experience that Koval later tells me shaped her own vision for her business, and ultimately the ways in which she chooses to produce. Like all artists, there’s more to the story than what’s on the page.
THE INTERVIEW Bettie Magazine: When was it that did you first started designing? Sarah Koval: I started designing when I was, I think, in eighth grade because I remember going into my freshman year and when they asked everyone what they wanted to do, I just remember saying, “I want to be a fashion designer,” and it just kind of stuck with me. My aunt and my grandmother both went to school for fashion design, so it’s in the family a little bit. sept/oct 2013
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B: Is that also how you became interested in fashion in general? SK: Yeah, I mean I always used to help her with sewing projects and things. But, believe it or not, it also had a lot to do with Project Runway. When it came out when we were in middle school, I watched it and just remember thinking like, wow there’s actually a profession behind this. I always just thought of you just go to a store and buy clothes, and that’s how it works, but then when I realized there are people actually behind it and designing it, that’s what really
got me interested. Ever since then, I always soaked up anything I could about… [pauses] well, not just design, but about garment construction. I love building something. I mean, I always kept up with trends in fashion, but, if I’m being perfectly honest, a lot of people who start out wanting to go into design, especially in college, are just people that like to shop and read Vogue. I was never like that. I was never really interested in couture, either, although I completely respect the talent of couturiers. I just love ready-to-wear. I love how versatile it is, for the wearer and the designer. I like making something that real people can make a statement in every day. I appreciate personal style, and the way creative people express fashion, and ready-to-wear is a big part of that. B: What is your biggest source of inspiration for your work? SK: I’ve always been very attracted to the prints and styles of the early 1960s and the whole mod era. I tend to incorporate this in different ways, whether it’s the textiles I use, or some of the silhouettes. You know, feminine shift dresses, bold colors. I did a motorcycle jacket for fall [2015, seen at right] that was very much inspired by the motor-scooter trend and the “mods-versus-rockers” scene of the sixties. Also, I’m
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a sucker for a floral print. I will buy anything in a floral [laughs]. Geometric shapes are also a theme that I tend to repeat, but I think that goes back to the whole mod fixation. It’s hard to predict though. Inspiration can come from everywhere. Music, movies, colors, even my friends. And I do try to stay conscious of current trends, or at least our culture at large, and how my designs might fit into that. B: Once you have the inspiration, what’s the next step? SK: I create a lot of mood boards. Usually, when I’m prepping for the new season, I just start building a mood board, even if I don’t have a concept completely nailed down. When I’m flipping through magazines, or just doing some free-form sketching, I feel like my eye will often gravitate towards similar material. Sometimes I will go looking for something specific— colors, or prints— that I feel fit the aesthetic I’m looking for. Once that’s done, I start working on more refined sketches. Ultimately, those get made into patterns, and patterns get made into garments. At some point, it becomes a much more technical process than you might think. That’s what I think makes designing such a great challenge, sometimes. It’s not just, This is pretty, let me make this, but it’s a lot about engineering something. Making the fabbettiemag.com
ric do what you want it to do. There’s a lot of architecture— a lot of engineering— that goes into fashion. B: You mentioned that you’ve never had much interest in couture, but you have some incredible couture pieces in your portfolio. SK: Yeah, as a student especially, I had to make a few pieces out of unconventional material, and I’ve done a few more sculptural designs just for the challenge since then. My first was junior year of college. The piece was made out of acetate which is usually used as a plastic film for overhead projectors. It’s also used in a lot of other ways but I guess that’s one that’s really familiar. I had worked with it in a class my freshman year that was called Form Study. It was like an abstract sculpture class and we had to pick our own medium, so I chose to work through acetate through that semester and when I got into fashion it was something that I was just really familiar with. When we were asked to do a piece that was non-textile, I knew I wanted to go for something that had a classic look to it, but with a twist, because it was non-textile. Because acetate is clear plastic, I had to spray paint it, which was a lot of fun. I could add a lot of different color to that, but I decided to keep it simple and just do gold and blue. I went for a more 50s-60s silhouette, higher-waisted, with a Peter Pan collar, and then give it a little cap sleeve. For the skirt, I sept/oct 2013
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just decided to attach all of these crumpled pieces of acetate to give it a lot of body and make it more of a fun, cocktail kind of a dress. I’ve used acetate a couple times since then. I actually did a six-piece collection of cocktail attire for this charity event in 2011 where I used acetate, newspaper, and some other nontraditional materials. It’s just a fun thing! The craftsy art nerd in me enjoys it, even if it’s not how I make my living. B: So how would you say it is to wear? SK: It has been worn a couple times. I haven’t been able to put it on, but I can’t imagine it’s terribly comfortable because it is plastic, but my model who wore it for the MassArt fashion show at Revere last spring, she said it wasn’t too bad to wear. It was a little hot, doesn’t really breathe too much, but it does move a bit, as structured as it is. The thing of it is, that even though this is “wearable art,” it’s not something that anyone is going to live their live in. I love what we can do with materials and how we can sculpt all sorts of stuff into unique forms that can be placed on the body, but the reason I love ready-wear is because that’s what people really make their own. That’s when a garment is under the ultimate test: if it can be wore practically, fashionably and frequently.
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B: Was it hard to make? SK: It took a long time. The plastic actually went through a sewing machine which was okay. There are a couple darts in the bodice and it actually went through pretty well. I just felt bad for my sewing machine; I went through a lot of needles with that one! Putting the bodice and the skirt together wasn’t too bad, but what was the most difficult was attaching all the pieces to the skirt, which is all done by hand. That took a very long time, maybe eight to ten hours of work just put in there. B: You’re still pretty new to the scene. Where do you see your career in ten years? S: I used to work in retail for some time immediately after college, and that experience really made me really want to focus on opening a boutique. I love the idea of presenting a space that really houses what I’m about and what how my garments can be worn. That being said, I really appreciate brands that allow other designers’ work to be sold— for instance, shoes and accessories that I might not make, but that I love. Brining in locally-made products would be ideal, even if— eventually, if I’m really lucky (laughs) — I have stores in multiple cities. For now though, I’m just trying to put together the best show possible. k
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fiction
Taking by camilla fratturato
Off
THE RAIN WAS SO STEADY AGAINST THE TALL WINDOW OF THE TERMINAL that Shira was reminded of a car wash, water constant and heavy and violent pounding against glass. Max looked at her as another crack of thunder erupted. She raked a few wisps of brown-black hair from her face with the tips of her fingers and sighed. “Maybe we should just go home.” “Yeah, but we’ve already been here for this long. It’s just two hours.” “For now…” She carefully pulled the orange slice from the side of the glass and squeezed it into her beer. “…I just hate sitting around in one place for so long,” she concluded. “I know.” From their table, Max and Shira had a view of everyone walking past the restaurant, standing on the moving sidewalk, checking departure times. The bar suddenly erupted in cheers. Max looked up at the Phillies game playing above him. Shira observed the tacky interior of the restaurant, a recreation of a famous sports bar just outside of Center City. The completely open entry made it feel like only three-quarters of an actual restaurant, like one of those TV sitcom sets, like if she walked out beyond this room, she would be breaking the fourth wall. “Looks like they’re winning,” Max said, looking back at her. Shira shrugged. Mindlessly, she began twisting her ring around on her left hand over and over again. It had only been a year since the wedding, three and a half since the night they first met, but it felt so much longer. 52
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Shira recalled their meeting well, though. It had been in a basement, at some house party in University City. The rafters were filled with cobwebs and the walls a dirty, exposed brick that someone had begun to paint but never quite finished. She had always described it as looking like the sort of place where a previous owner had once performed illegal lobotomies, as the type of house that had once been a funeral home, the basement reserved for embalming. There was one lone lightbulb dangling from the ceiling over the pool table, and an antique lamp switched on from its resting place among stacks of National Geographic back issues that must have gone back to at least the early 1970s. Max was sitting in an old wheelchair when she first noticed him eying her. There was a cutout design in the back of her dress that attracted a chill to her body, the January air present in the unheated room. She pretended she wasn’t cold, though, and took a sip from the silver flask her friend, Sydney, had pulled from her knee-high boot. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Max watch her. Finally, he stood up to approach her, but was preempted by Shira, tired of waiting. “It’s a miracle,” she said, “You can walk.” OVER THE SHOUTING from the game, Shira could barely make out the announcements from the loudspeaker. Attention passengers… Flight… to… It didn’t matter. The bettiemag.com
storm had grounded everything in and out. They had been planning this trip to the UK since their second date. They had even postponed their honeymoon to save money for it, instead deciding to drive to the shore for a few days, borrowing Shira’s stepdad’s condo in the offseason. It was going to be two and a half weeks, initially. It then shortened to two, then to just ten days, at least three of which, Shira knew, would be spent on travel and recovery from jetlag. As Max picked at the plate of french fries between them, Shira flipped through one of the guidebooks she had brought, taking a quiet count of all the items she had once circled with a highlighter, many now with thick black X’s drawn through them. “Have you thought any more about that job?” He looked up from his plate, “I told you I’m not even considering it.” “Why?” “Because I would be in a lower position than I am now, for one. And I just don’t want to work at some corporate place like that. Even Mike hates it, that’s why he wants me to come over there, so he has someone to suffer with.” He ran his hand through his messy brown hair, only mussing it further. “I know. I know you’d go back to a junior position, but you’d be making the same amount of money. You’d be able to go somewhere, to advance. Don’t you–” she paused for a moment, “Don’t you want to be designing
skyscrapers or bridges or something? You’re never going to do that where you are.” “Shira, I just don’t want to. …I can’t.” He took a deep breath and stared back at her. His eyebrows were creating competing lines against the straight edges of his glasses. She could vaguely make out the reflection of a wing on the tarmac in the lens. “Well,” she said quietly, “I ran into Ethan the other day and he told me they might have an opening for me back at the agency. Maybe I’ll give him a call. I’ll definitely be making more than I am now.” “You still talk to Ethan?” he asked. “No, not regularly. …No, we just ran into each other by chance on Broad Street when I was leaving work, and we started talking.” Shira reached for her glass again, halfway through a second round now. The sound of the rain on the window suddenly felt so familiar to her, and she could still feel the water beating down on her skin in thick drops when she and Ethan ran down Chestnut Street that summer after her junior year of college. She remembered racing into the building and up the stairs, tripping on the threshold into the empty office after-hours. Her carton of lo mein had spilled open on the floor. Ethan followed, tripping over her, both of them laughing on the carpet, wet and warm in the stale summer heat. His legs tangled up with hers. The feeling that they were both suddenly on fire, a fire that could only sept/oct 2013
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be extinguished in that moment by his lips on hers. It was a feeling that Shira had only ever known once before and once since. “So was that on Thursday night, when you got home late?” Max asked. “No. Well, yeah, but I got home late because I was meeting Sydney, remember? She was in town for the night and we went to dinner.” “Did Ethan go with you?” “No, why would he?” “I don’t know.” Shira took a sip of her drink. She watched the lightning kiss the horizon out past the landing strip. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” She grabbed her purse and stood up. Max looked at her, then at her cell phone which she had left sitting on the tabletop. Shira picked it up and tossed it into her bag. She knew Ethan’s name was still sitting in her inbox from earlier that morning, his message so short that everything he needed to say fit into the subject line: It was great seeing you. Let’s do it again sometime? SHIRA STOOD AT THE SINK in the glare of the fluorescent light. Her eyes looked puffier than usual. She’d been waking up more frequently each night. She wondered if Max had even noticed. She couldn’t feel him beside her when she woke anymore, and she missed the way it used to be, especially on those late nights when they got home from the bar, Max’s face a little flush after one too many glasses 54
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of Guinness. He would get a look in his eyes that illuminated everything. A look like she had just told him a secret, even though she’d said nothing at all. In those moments, he would touch her in a way that felt solid with affection and respect, and not just a consequence of lust. In the heat of the moment, he made this motion, grabbing Shira around her shoulders or waist with just one arm and swiftly placing her where he wanted.
“He would get a look in his eyes that illuminated everything.
A look like she had just told him a secret, even though she’d said nothing at all.” To Shira, it was a movement that always felt sudden, even violent, and yet she knew that he was somehow protecting her. Like something was chasing after the moment and he had to have her close, feel the weight of her, to know it wouldn’t disappear. But the chase must have been over now. Shira washed her hands in the restroom, patting her face and under her eyes with her cool, damp hands before drying them off. On the night when Shira first met
Max, he had told her, “I don’t believe in love.” “What do you mean you don’t ‘believe’ in love? How can you not believe in love?” she asked. “Do you believe in God?” “Not really.” “Well, if God can be made up, then why can’t love? You can’t see either one of them; you can only have faith that they exist.” “So I guess you’ve never been in love then?” “I dunno,” he said, shrugging, “Maybe. But I’ve also tried to pray.” Shira was barely twenty-one and a little drunk and just thought he was cute. And she thought that if he decided to change his mind someday for her, it would mean something. AS SHIRA WALKED OUT of the restroom, she passed the television monitors along the wall, and scanned the list of Departures. Their flight was still set to take off at the same delayed time. Shira looked at her watch. They had a little over an hour to kill. It was as if this plane was never going to take off. When she arrived back to their table, Max’s eyes caught hers from across the bar. He turned and looked back out the window. There were two glasses of beer at the table, his already half-consumed, hers with the head still resting untouched. Shira took her seat and looked at Max. “Black velvet,” he said quietly, raising his glass slightly before looking back out the window. They could see bettiemag.com
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a plane had finally taken off, the lightning having gone and the rain starting to slow. “I thought you said you’d never drink one of these again after Craig’s party.” “I guess I was wrong,”Max whispered. The sun was setting then, though the sky had been so darkened by the clouds that it hardly mattered. Max and Shira sat in silence at the table, watching everyone take off at the tables around them. Max took a sip of his drink and looked at his wife. “Hey, do you remember that one day, that August after we started dating, when we all drove down to Rehoboth?” “What made you think of that?” “This weather, I guess. It was so miserable that day. Getting caught in that fucking undertow… I thought I wouldn’t come out of it. That’s kind of what this feels like.” “Yeah,” Shira said, “Well, it stopped now so we’ll make it to Dublin soon enough.” “Is Sydney still with Craig?” Max asked suddenly, a sharpness jumping into his throat, “What did you guys talk about at dinner?” “Nothing really, just catching up. They’re still together. …Of course they’re still together. I just wish they hadn’t moved to New York. I miss hanging out with them,” Shira said. Max nodded and swallowed the last sip of his drink. “I remember Ethan once said to me, ‘There comes a time in your life when bettiemag.com
all your friends move to Brooklyn,’” she continued, a small smile appearing on her lips, “And I guess he was right.” After it was already out, Shira realized she shouldn’t have said it. “I’m surprised Ethan still talks to you,” Max said, “He had to have known how badly you wanted to fuck him when you were working for him.” “What?” “C’mon, Shira. You had a crush on the guy.” Shira took another sip, “No, I didn’t.” Max was silent. “Besides,” Shira continued, “I was with you then. And Ethan is married.” “Yeah. He is.” Max looked suddenly into Shira’s eyes. His brown irises were stirring, dark, the lighting in the bar having dimmed for the evening. THE DAY MAX had gotten caught in that undertow was the day he had told Shira he loved her. It was one of the more vivid memories Shira had from the last three years, still able to see Max’s face on the drive home, his hair was sort of curling, still damp from the ocean and falling in his sleepy eyes. It had been five beers and several hours since he was coughing up water on the beach, scrapes all along his arms and back from sand and broken shells. Shira had been waiting for the moment, scared to say it first, but when the words escaped his mouth, she wondered if drunkenness really brewed honesty, or if it only brought
words you didn’t mean, unable to comprehend the repercussions of a lie that big. She had seen it work both ways. She wondered if he had just come too close to seeing God that day to keep not believing. But she was still just twenty-two and a little tired and hoping that he had changed his mind for her. The sudden whooshing sound of another plane taking off broke into the quiet of Shira’s memory. She took the final sip of her drink and looked at her husband. The bar was quiet. The game had ended, its fans going on to their respective destinations. She could finally hear clearly when the announcement came through. Attention passengers: American Airlines Flight 3637 to Dublin will be boarding shortly in Gate A4. Shira looked back at Max, “I guess it’s time to go.” “Yeah.” But neither Max nor Shira made a move to rise from their seats. They both looked at each other for a moment, knowing that neither one of them was prepared for takeoff. k About the Author Camilla Fratturato is primarily a fiction writer interested in character-driven stories. She recently received her MFA in creative writing from the California Institute of the Arts. Her words have been featured in a number of publications, some fiction, some not. She is currently working on her first short story collection and a graphic novel.
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Is the Pin-Up
N IST ?
Lachrista Greco examines contemporary popularity of the classic pin-up girl— cemented in American culture in the 1940s and ‘50s by the likes of artists like Alberto Vargas. With more and more women admiring and mimicking the art form, even sporting pin-up girl tattoos, has the power dynamic of the pin-up been reversed? If women are reappropriating a female image created as an object of the male gaze, is the pin-up then empowered and, thus, feminist? Is there such a thing as a feminist pin-up?
by lachrista greco
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I’VE ALWAYS BEEN A FAN of “The Pin-Up,” and through it all, I’ve had conversations with other women questioning this interest of mine. The led to my own internal dialogue--my own questioning of why I continue to like them. It also led me to the question, is the pin-up feminist? What is a pin-up? Webster’s Dictionary defines it as: That which is affixed to a board or wall for scrutiny or perusal; specifically, a clipping or photograph, usually of an attractive young woman… Designating a photograph, clipping, or drawing used in this manner, or a person who models such picture (Buszek, 8). I have various pin-ups in my room. One is a Marilyn Monroe poster where the blonde bombshell is lifting weights. Another, is a more modern pin-up poster of Beth Ditto, the lead singer of Gossip, which was designed for Gossip’s 2009 tour. These images, both very different, exhibit a similar aggressive sexuality. Both are aesthetically pleasing. Both utilize the “Monster/Beauty” paradigm, as discussed in Maria Elena Buszek’s book, Pin-Up Grrrls: Feminism, Sexuality, Popular Culture. Buszek cites the “Monster/Beauty” theory,
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created by Joanna Frueh. She states: ‘Monster/beauty is a condition, and it can also describe an individual. Because extremity is immoderation—deviation from convention in behavior, appearance, or representation—and starkly different from standard cultural expectations for particular groups of people, monster/beauty departs radically from normative, ideals representations of beauty….Monster/beauty is artifice, pleasure/discipline, cultural invention, and it is extravagant and generous’ (Buzsek, 3).
With the two pin-ups I discussed, this rings true. The Marilyn Monroe poster exudes sexuality, which was threatening during the time period (and some may argue, still is), as well as a resiliency/strength (lifting weights) rarely displayed in typical images of women. The more “modern” pin-up of Beth Ditto is also subverting cultural norms and expectations. Ditto is a large woman, both in size and personality, and has been a fierce advocate for the body-positive movement. Because of her size, the pin-up image of her is subverting
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the societal norm of “skinny” and size 0 models. In the image, Ditto drapes herself over a chair, exuding confidence and sexuality. The way in which many (not all) pin-ups subvert culture roles or societal expectations is definitely of a feminist nature. Speaking to this, Buszek states:
“The pin-up acts as an embellished existence of the subject.
Some
pin-ups exaggerate femininity, most exaggerate sexuality.” “Contrary to popular belief—held by many within, outside of, and even against the movement—that a ‘feminist pin-up’ is an oxymoron, it is no more so than ‘feminist painting’ or ‘feminist sculpture,’ or ‘feminist porn’ for that matter: these are all media and genres historically used and appreciated primarily by men, about which nothing is inherently sexist, but which have all been both kept from women and used to create images that inscribe, normalize, or bolster notions of women as inferior to men (Buszek, 4).” It’s interesting to note that, initially, pin-ups were meant for women, as
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well as men. The pin-up created a fantasy realm for women (specifically housewives)--a place they could go to play “pretend.” It was fine for men to enjoy these images, but women had to do so in private. The pin-up acts as an embellished existence of the subject. Some pinups exaggerate femininity, most exaggerate sexuality. The image is a paused burlesque show, revealing and hinting at society’s epitome of female sexuality. Feminist Theorist,Judith Butler explored this with regard to cross-dressing. Buszek argues that this idea can be used in pin-up politics as well. She states: In much the same way that Judith Butler has argued that drag cross-dressing can mime, rework, and resignify the external signs and stability of gender ideals, so too will we see the pin-up mime, rework, and resignify the signs and stability of specifically female sexual ideals
(Buszek, 12). When you look at a pin-up in this way, so much more is discovered. The viewer begins to see beyond the pin-up-as-just-another-pictureof-a-pretty-girl. There is depth and breadth. From a feminist lens, one can critique the image, asking, “Is this subversive?” or “Does this rework stereotypical gender roles?” The picture forces the viewer to look beyond the image-as-arousing motif. And, as Buszek notes, how a woman’s sexuality is displayed and discussed has the potential to be detrimental. She states: The most obvious problem with representing sexuality is the fact that sexualized representations of women have—like female sexuality itself—historically been used to limit women’s growth and opportunities as nonsexual beings (Buszek, 13). In what we have seen and known of
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Beth Ditto of Gossip, challenging traditional pin-up body types (left) while JD Samson (above) and Marilyn Monroe (previous) challenge traditional gender expectations.
in the bands, Le Tigre and MEN, respectively. In 2003, Samson created, J.D.’s Lesbian Calendar. Samson’s masculine femininity subverts stereotypical binary gender roles in a culture that is so dichotomous in thinking. If we compare and contrast J.D. Samson’s pin-up with Diana Dors’, we
“When pin-ups are done well, they uproot the engrained societal expectations that live culture, women are designated a box-the Virgin or the Whore--commonly referred to as the Virgin/Whore dichotomy in feminist texts. This polarization is extremely restrictive and damaging to women, and has seemingly been happening for centuries. Though women are still faced with the Virgin/Whore dichotomy, exciting subcultures are rising, creating a “fresh face” for the Pin-Up. New and
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different gender roles are being displayed and celebrated. The way in which pin-up culture has “...reflected women’s roles in the cultures and subcultures in which it is created” (Buszek, 5) is a feminist feat. Also, the pin-up’s ability to reinvent itself time and again supports this claim of subversion. Take, for instance, the pin-up of J.D. Samson. Samson is a lesbian feminist and plays
in all of us.” see a great difference, yet similarities remain. Both images reflect women’s sexuality in a confrontational, inyour-face way. When pin-ups are done well, they uproot the ingrained societal expectations that live in all of us. For this, the pin-up definitely feminist. k
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FILM
Don Jon Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Scarlet Johansson HitRecord Films Joseph Gordon-Levitt makes an assured debut as a writer-director with Don Jon, a cultural critique of the expectations placed on relationships in an environment saturated with media misrepresentations of both women and men. It’s a comedy ostensibly about porn, but that’s really just the skin Gordon-Levitt puts on his examination of modern love, the hook that belies his trenchant commentary on how we objectify— instead of connect with—the opposite sex. Gordon-Levitt also stars as the titular Romeo, a sexy Jersey boy who brings home a different girl every weekend. bettiemag.com
Gordon-Levitt is irresistible in the role, adopting the Situation’s swagger on-screen, donning it like a uniform before he joins his boys at the club. Don’s also addicted to porn, though the “A” word isn’t emphasized, if used at all. In his aggressive, aptly applied voiceover, he explains the appeal of pictures and video over the real thing in a way that almost makes sense. Which isn’t to say pornography is romanticized here—it’s not. In fact, it’s really rather ugly in a way that Thanks for Sharing, another recent indie dramedy that deals with sex addiction, largely avoids. Don’s streak with the ladies ends when he meets Barbara Sugarman (an alluring, gum-smacking Scarlett Johansson), a girl who has her own screwed-up sense of what love should look like based on movies—not porn, but the romantic comedies she adores. She wants to meets his friends and family, for example—and see him enroll in night school—before
she’ll get in the sack. And pornography? That’s a deal-breaker. Don Jon demonstrates a deft sense of editing of both picture and sound by Gordon-Levitt and Lauren Zuckerman, emphasizing Don’s routine without letting it get boring. The signature hum of an Apple computer booting up, for example, becomes a signal—eventually, we don’t even need to see it to know what comes next. Meanwhile, cross-cutting between a nice
albeit kind of dull dinner and what he’d rather be doing (or watching) shows how pervasive porn has become in Don Jon’s life, and the use of a time lapse illustrates his inevitable meltdown without lingering over it for too long. These visual and aural tricks aren’t gimmicks. Rather, they’re masterfully used tools integral to telling the story. When the soundtrack finally goes quiet, we know that what’s happening is, finally, real.
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Wadjda Reem Abdullah, Waad Mohammed Sony
Quietly radical, Wadjda is a gentle, seemingly simple story about a girl growing up in Saudi Arabia who wants to earn enough money for a bike. But because our heroine lives in a repressive patriarchal culture, her quest isn’t so easy: Saudi society looks down on women riding bikes. But what could have been a one-dimensional condemnation develops into something deeper and richer. Wadjda means to open minds back home, but it may also surprise Western audiences because of its ability to dance around coming-of-age conventions. Newcomer Waad Mohammed plays Wadjda, a 10-year-old living with her sweet mother (Reem Abdullah). Willful and calculating, Wadjda recognizes that her community puts restrictions on her—she’s constantly being upbraided for not covering her head in public—and yet she goes through life unconcerned with all of the restraints put on her. 72
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Written and directed by Haifaa Al-Mansour, Wadjda has a distinct sense of time and place, and it’s the first film to be made entirely within Saudi Arabia—which makes the achievement of Al-Mansour, a woman, even more impressive. The movie’s predominant sentiment is compassion—not just to Wadjda but also to a patriarchal culture that, according to the film, is starting to lose its stranglehold on the people, especially the young. Rarely underlining her points when a subtle observation can be made instead, Al Mansour deftly shows us a Saudi Arabia in flux—a country embracing a traditional, religious conservatism while also making room for globalization and Western culture. There are no villains in Wadjda, only stubborn teachers and adults who are holding onto old traditions for reasons they can’t quite justify anymore. Meanwhile, Wadjda and her friend—the charming Abdullah (Abdullrahman Al Gohani)—represent a more carefree generation that’s perhaps still immature but is unwilling to accept their country’s staid customs. Full of pluck, Mohammed plays Wadjda with
overflowing naturalness. Though Al-Mansour clearly looks at young people as signs of a hopeful, freer future Saudi Arabia, she resists the urge to turn her heroine into a tiny icon of this new era. Rather, she just lets Wadjda be a happy girl—which is all that a lot of young women in that part of the world want.
C.O.G. Jonathon Groff, Corey Stoll Focus World
C.O.G. makes a magnificent case-study in the perils of converting prose to cinema. This adaptation of an essay by David Sedaris sets out to tell a great writer’s story without the great writer’s voice. In a way it’s admirable—writer/ director Kyle Patrick Alvarez declines to plaster Sedaris’ words onto the voice-over
at all times, instead working with subtle quietude, punctuated by disconcerting bits of percussion. But in the end, it doesn’t quite come off. The characters demand a precise treatment that the film simply doesn’t have. The essay follows Sedaris’ time picking apples and doing other odd jobs in rural Oregon. The author expertly takes digs at his inflated sense of self-worth and the people he encounters, balancing his vitriol and bemusement with self-deprecation. On screen, in flesh and blood, the characters don’t quite feel as alive. Jonathan Groff (Glee) plays Sedaris’ stand-in, Samuel.
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Samuel is supposed to meet his friend to spend the summer picking apples, but she ditches him, leaving him alone in the strange land with strange people who, he thinks, aren’t nearly as important as himself. As he moves from picking to working at the packing factory and beyond, Samuel meets an assortment of oddballs, each played by able character actors. Dean Stockwell plays Hoggs, the colorful boss of the apple orchard. Corey Stoll plays a co-worker
at the factory who’s drawn to Samuel because he shares his sense of superiority. The scene in which Samuel visits the trailer home of Stoll’s character has some of the film’s funniest moments, and Alvarez might have done well to inject more absurdity into the rest of the film. The movie features many good laughs and smart details, but it often feels too clinical. The issue isn’t—and never should be—a lack of loyalty to the source, but a failure to give the story attitude. More
of Sedaris’s prose would have been too dense and cumbersome in the medium. C.O.G. shows a director with the right ideas of how to go about things, failing to find the perfect approach needed to play satire on the screen. bettiemag.com
Romeo & Juliet Douglas Booth, Hailee Steinfeld Relativity Media It’s the Bard’s romantic tragedy for the ages, featuring a swoony, moody, beautiful Romeo (Douglas Booth) who’s swept off his feet at first glance by the sweet and gently Juliet (Hailee Steinfeld). But in fair Verona, the Montagues, of which Romeo is a member, and the Capulets, whose jewel is the patriarch’s daughter, Juliet, are mortal enemies. The eager Paris wants to marry Juliet, whose hot-headed cousin Tybalt (Ed Westwick), hates Romeo and his cohorts, the fair-minded Benvolio (Kodi Smit-McPhee) and the dashing Mercutio (Christian Cooke). Romeo’s confidant, Friar Laurence (Paul Giamatti), thinks there might be a path for happiness for the young couple, with the help of Juliet’s nurse (Lesley Manville). But the course of true love never did run smooth. Romeo & Juliet’s titular hero is made as appealing here as can be: He’s an artist (a broody one, too), a heartfelt romantic and impetuous,
driven to grand gestures and wearing shirts barely cosseted. This Romeo is the stuff of teen dreams. Booth fares fairly well with the Bard’s challenging lines, reciting them with real-life cadence. It’s too bad that his counterpart, Steinfeld, doesn’t. She doesn’t so much say her lines as mutter them. She doesn’t shortchange the material when it comes to acting, however. Steinfeld plays it straight and it suits the film well. Booth and Steinfeld may not share a white-hot chemistry, but they are starry-eyed, indeed. Downton Abbey creator Julian Fellowes wrote this remake, and it’s prone to soap opera-ish flourishes. (Director Carlo Carlei doesn’t do it any favors, either.) The music is overdone, as are the lingering shots of Booth’s handsome face. Fellowes’ and his cinematographer’s take on Juliet is quite obvious, too; they encase her in a gauzy, dreamy light— cheap shots that curb the movie’s potential. This adaptation of Romeo and Juliet won’t break new ground like Baz Lurhmann’s did. It isn’t lush like Franco Zeffirelli’s 1968 version, either. But it’s pretty and earnest in wonderful ways, and that’s nothing to scoff at. k sept/oct 2013
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BOOKS Bitch is the New Black Helena
Andrews HarperCollins The title of this sardonic essay collection refers to the phrase coined by Tina Fey during a Saturday Night Live monologue defending Hillary Clinton. That Helena Andrews is black adds a spin to the catchphrase; it resonates with her sense of what it’s like to be boxed into a stereotypical category. She writes of Michelle Obama, “Despite the fact that the most recognizable woman in the United States is black, popular culture still hasn’t moved past the only adjective apparently meant to describe us-’strong.’” Andrews, a successful political journalist, explores the difficulties of trying to attain success, both professional and personal. As the beneficiaries of the feminist movement and the black civil-rights movement, Andrews and her friends find themselves in a position their mothers and grandmothers had not deemed possible— financially independent, well educated, and professionally 74
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successful— but the men have not kept up. In her opening essay, Andrews details a mind-gamey instant-messaging session with an on-and-off boyfriend, which leads her into a compelling analysis, replete with country-wide stats, on the complications of looking for a husband. “While our women were snatching up college degrees and busting up glass ceilings, our men were getting snatched up and busted,” she writes. Although the story of the professional single girl has been written before, Andrews’ combination of personal anecdote and analysis of success and race makes her tales unique. And at the same time, her exploration of gender in America is one surely any woman can relate to. Poor Girl Gourmet Amy McCoy Andrews McMeel The stated purpose of this cookbook is to show people how to cook good meals on a budget, but the title is misleading. Food blogger turned author Amy McCoy, head of the Rhode Island Slow Food Network, advises her readers to buy humanely raised meat and then exhorts them to “always be on the lookout for 99 cents/lb.
chicken”-impossible; freerange chicken is never that cheap. The use of the word gourmet in her title is similarly questionable, unless your idea of gourmet involves sprinkling chopped, fried bacon over a can of undrained beans, as in her salty recipe for “Quick White Beans With Bacon.” A few recipes call for herbs, but most are disappointingly devoid of spice or seasoning. Additionally, I found McCoy’s prose too chatty and awkwardly self-conscious, with a high TMI factor. Although she offers recipes for berry preserves and vegetable scrap stock, more informed tips on preparing inexpensive legumes such as lentils, and advice on how best to store fresh produce in order to maximize its lifespan, are lacking from the “basic techniques” section of the book. Not a worthy investment.
Meatcake Dame Darcy Fantagraphics “The juicer was a machine that gave an electric shock and with it came the clanging of the 13 brass bells attached to it.” So begins the reader’s journey into the dark, macabre, neo-Victorian world of Dame Darcy’s Meatcake. This compilation of the best stories of the first 10 years of Meatcake, an expanded reprint of the hardcover, is an almost voyeuristic peek into the deranged yet ingenious world of the musician/actress/fortune teller/ dollmaker and comics genius. For those unfamiliar with her Meatcake legacy, Darcy’s bettiemag.com
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scraggly drawing style and fairy tale–meets-nightmare slices of life are the perfect escape from the droll hum of reality. Darcy’s eclectic and reoccurring cast includes Effluvia the Mermaid, Igpay the Pig Latin pig, Scampi the Selfish Shellfish, and Friend the Girl. The stories themselves alternate between freak-show folklore and Seinfeld-esque “nothing happens” situations. There are broken hearts, bone-yard gossip, gunshots over hotcakes, zombies, and my personal favorite, “The Juicer and the Cake Walk,” in which everybody in town competes at a cake walk for a little taste of electrocution ecstasy. Meatcake is like the comics incarnation of a Tim Burton film, except instead of a tripped-out Johnny Depp, we have Stregapez, a woman who speaks by dispensing Pez through a bloody hole in her throat. Get the picture? k bettiemag.com
MUSIC Days Are Gone HAIM Colombia/ Polydor When you hear about the influences and consider just how slick the record can be, you might imagine Haim coming over as faceless. But the band’s most unusual quality on Days Are Gone is their ability to absorb inputs and continue to sound distinct. The album’s punchy title track was co-written by Jessie Ware, another artist who’s made a name replicating the sounds of pop’s past, along with Ware’s frequent songwriting collaborator Kid Harpoon (“Wildest Moments”, “Night Light”); Ware and Harpoon’s style is usually easy to pick out, but it’s barely felt on “Days Are Gone”, as
Danielle Haim’s staccato delivery pops and locks where Ware’s vocals would have crested and swelled. That Haim retain their identity through collaboration speaks to their confidence. The lyrics on Days Are Gone aren’t necessarily built to withstand close analysis; largely, the words function to add a bit of weight to the effortless, feather-light melodies, but Haim do know how to turn a phrase. “The Wire,” especially, has some of group’s most effective lines, a level-headed act of kiss-off kindness (“I gave it all away/ Just so I could say that/ Well I know that you’re gonna be OK anyway”) paired with a rolling melody that makes the song one of the most benevolent breakup anthems since Robyn’s “Call Your Girlfriend.” Days Are Gone’s is so polished that Haim could easily be seen as clinical and lifeless, but their lighthearted attitude complements their recording rigor. Whether they’re covering Miley Cyrus and Sheryl Crow, making “bass faces,” or reuniting Rockhaim by bringing their own parents on stage for a rendition of “Mustang Sally,” Haim come over as affable, playing-to-the-rafters rock stars as well as studio pros. Taken as a whole, the project is a testament to what’s most important, and Days Are Gone’s divine pleasures suggest that,
rock history be damned, family business doesn’t always have to be dysfunctional.
Reflektor Arcade Fire Merge Records Arcade Fire have been really good for a really long time. Three LPs might not seem like much on paper, but it’s been a thrilling, nail-biting ride in real-time: The holy trinity of
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Funeral, Neon Bible and The Suburbs (each released three years apart, arriving with the geeky art-rock grandiosity of a new Star Wars film) ranks among the most impressive streaks of recorded rock music in the past couple decades. With a band of this stature, there’s always a bit of dread involved: “When are they gonna fuck it up?” And as early buzz generated around Reflektor, the Montreal band’s fourth album, the moment of reckoning seemed nigh: A double-album co-produced by DFA whiz James Murphy, boasting Haitian rhythms, backed by a hallucinogenic ad campaign? Only two outcomes seemed possible: Either Win Butler and company were preparing for a mind-altering masterpiece or a big-ass shark-jump. Disappointingly, Reflektor is neither—somehow both sonically polarizing and not weird enough to qualify as a reinvention. The title track sets up a multi-hued tapestry of deep-thinking and deep groove, Butler and Régine Chassagne (the latter in her native French) gazing into the hollow eyes of their iPhones in a modern tale of tragic romance: “We fell in love when 76
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I was 19,” Butler sings, “And I was staring at a screen.” Synths rumble; distortion crashes; congas pound. David Bowie drops by for a random warble. It’s gripping stuff, though it also foreshadows one of Reflektor’s ultimate oddities: its bloat. It’s easy to overlook The Suburbs’ meatiness: 64 minutes, 16 tracks, multiple reprises. But that album earned its weight—both through its cohesive narrative of suburban disillusionment and quality songwriting. There was no filler on The Suburbs—it was a behemoth because, given its epic presentation, it couldn’t not be. In contrast, Reflektor is the first of Arcade Fire’s albums that hauls its fair share of dead weight. First off, this is the band’s least melodic album. There isn’t a single melody here that assaults the soul like “Sprawl II” or “Neon Bible,” not a single riff that sparks the imagination like “Tunnels” or “Modern Man.” Arcade Fire have always made dense, arty music—but with the accessibility and visceral emotion of a classic rock band. But Reflektor’s 76 minutes often drag (the tuneless balladry of “Awful Sound,”
the Gary Glitter-biting “Joan of Arc”), with even the most engaging tracks (the shifting electro-funk sing-along “Here Comes the Night Time”) droning on minutes longer than necessary. Of course, within Reflektor‘s polarizing mess are some transcendent moments—particularly when Murphy’s presence is tangibly felt: “We Exist” marries a subdued disco groove to psychedelic squiggles, building to a crescendo of symphonic bombast; compared with the bulk of disc two, “It’s Never Over (Oh Orpheus)” feels oddly invigorated, layering chipmunk-funk harmonies and tumbling waves of bass over ticking time-bomb hi-hats. It’s a cliché, sure, but also a truth: This would’ve made a killer single album. Butler’s lyrics continue to captivate (gazing into an unwanted “Afterlife,” rioting against the conventions of what a “Normal Person” should be), and there’s enough musical brilliance here to justify that Reflektor Halloween costume you’re so proud of. Yes, Reflektor is very well an intellectual triumph, but—in a first for this band—it’s almost never an emotional one. k bettiemag.com
k Dita Von Teese bettie of the month:
We recently caught up with the lengendary burlesque star and entreprenuer (yes, have you seen her line of lingerie and clothing?!,) Dita Von Teese, to get her thoughts on life, beauty and her fabulous career. DITA ON: WHY HER AUDIENCE IS MOSTLY WOMEN "You will not find a group of straight guys hanging out at my show. Any men there are with their girlfriends, or they're gay. … I don't know (why). A lot of women are finding empowerment out of seeing various kinds of beauty and sensuality and seeing eroticism in a different way than what you normally see, and I don't think that's necessarily something men as a whole — the regular guy isn't looking for that." DITA ON: NOT LOOKING LIKE A SWIMSUIT MODEL "Old Hollywood (beauty), for me, seemed easier to attain… because I can paint it and wash it away when I'm done. When I look at the cover of Sports Illustrated … I appreciate it and admire that kind of beauty and think maybe in another life I'm going to come back as that kind of beauty. But, actually, I'd rather be me, because I have an affection for anyone that has arrived to a different kind of substance with hard work and dedication." DITA ON: WHAT SHE LOOKS LIKE WHEN SHE'S OFF DUTY "I've learned in my adult life that my vulnerability is a strength. I love to be seen for who I really am. I'm not hiding
behind a facade or a mask of makeup; it's just something I do as a woman. It's a ritual I love. (Being well-turned out) is almost like having good manners. It's just, like, what you do." DITA ON: CAREER LONGEVITY "There's certain burlesque dancers that did go on and on, and others that just didn't. It's really about having a plan and thinking about why it is that people want to come see you. It's not just because your [butt] is nice; it's not just because your boobs are pretty. Because most of the greatest burlesque stars, and I will include myself in this, we're not the most beautiful and we're not the best dancers, but there's something special that they had that nobody else had. I know what my thing is." DITA ON: BEAUTY IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER "I would tell anyone that she could capture the spirit of what I'm about, that she could find her own confidence in her own way. My aesthetic is not for everyone. … I feel like I've been called beautiful and ugly in different measures. 'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder' is very true. You have to remember that. You can't listen to what people say. It's like water off a swan's back." k
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“I’m in the camp that needs to discover and take risks, sometimes it’s with the promise of something special and new, sometimes it’s to stay awake, either way it’s much more stressful with all the uncertainty but worth the pain in the end.” — Karen O
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