April 25, 2011

Socks of Fire

by Susan Yount

Never mind that the manager instructed you to wear solid black or navy socks. Hey little pistol. You'll even forget the four fat fucks at table five. Want to make some extra cash? You got the round table tonight and in these smokin' socks you'll serve chicken-fried-steak, mashed potatoes and sawmill gravy scintillatingly. Let me be your pepper you salty centerfold. You. The star of the Cracker Barrel Ballet and Roadside Freak Show. Your Glowing-Charcoal Argyle Socks (No. 555), dyed in China, will stay mid-calf as you dance to the tune of cranky, deep fried okra. What time you get off work? I’m staying at the hotel next door. Even that 50 cent tip left by the two old crones is no match for these swanky Uzbekistan-combustible-cotton, hand quilted socks. Another cup of coffee hon. Your patrons will be amazed as you blaze through kitchen grease seizing oversized portions of mac and cheese for their delight. More biscuits. More cornbread. Then, sparks flickering from your ankles— the manager notices. You are fired. You’re secretly thrilled. He calls you into his office. You take a seat. Kick off your shoes. Light a cigarette from your hand-linked heel.

Ribbed, stay-up tops. Made by India’s leading hosiery-maker to the upper caste. $32. Glowing-Charcoal Argyle Socks (No. 555), as described, combustible-cotton, originally found in hell.



Bio: Susan Yount is madam of the Chicago Poetry Brothel and editor and publisher of the Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal. Her chapbook, House on Fire, is forthcoming from Tilt Press. She received top honors in the Poetry Center of Chicago’s 2010 Juried Reading and works fulltime at the Associated Press. She is an MFA student in poetry at Columbia College Chicago and has a sock fetish.

"Socks of Fire" was first published in blossombones and then in the anthology, Eating Her Wedding Dress, a collection of clothing poems.

On Looking Like

by Angela Veronica Wong

Style has never been incidental to me. Perhaps it was spending ten years as a uniformed student, where clothing very clearly indicated a where and what you belonged to, if not a class, a privilege, and a mentality. Additionally likely, the love of clothing and development of a style is something passed down from my mother, who received it from her mother, an amazing woman who, when I was born in America, sent boxes of adorable children’s dresses, shoes, and hair accessories from Taiwan because children’s clothes were much more expensive in the States. Pictures of me at two years of age show an impeccably dressed little girl in white bobby socks and patent shoes, plaid jumpers with shiny black hair and big dark eyes looking solemnly into the camera, flanked by my smiling, youthful parents.

The author and her mother.

For years, these pictures served as my basis of self-understanding: I was such a good, attentive little girl, I thought. Perfectly dressed and standing still. This idea of myself was quickly disabused when I saw home videos of myself as a child, where I am bursting with energy and unable to stay put. There is a clip of me at three, sitting on a piano bench with a friend of mine. I stare at him warily as he attempts playing a piece in completely acceptable toddler fashion: out of rhythm and very slowly. This goes on for about a minute until I pushed him aside and started playing myself.

I think of this when I think of fashion, because there is a distinction between style and fashion. Fashion is the clothes, the objects. Style is personal, what you do with objects. How you give them life.


In case it rains, yellow boots and a clear umbrella.

As someone who has styled both photo shoots and personal closets, to make something or someone really work is to understand the what or who. The narrative that wants to be told. That what one wears is tied to identity—chosen identity, manifested identity, and determined identity—is nothing new. What is interesting to me is the expectation that comes with a visual presentation, and the subversion of those expectations.

I am often told I wear things that few can get away with, that my style is quite eclectic. That one day I will be wearing pearls and sundresses and the next leggings and plastic jewelry is not a testament to my excellent taste, but more my continuing changing nature. There are days I choose what to wear based on how I am feeling, and change how I feel through what I choose to wear. (I am guilty of mid-day fast-fashion shopping for a complete wardrobe makeover – thank you H&M on Fifth Avenue!). You have to feel and believe in what you wear. And when you do, you can get away with breaking rules and experimentation.

Modeling at a hair show.

There is a bit of an exhibitionist quality to this—which is not to say I walk around wearing as little clothes as possible, or writing the most audacious, titillating material. But rather, I’ve learned and continue to be learning how to embrace the fact that being a visual body (textually and physically) entails absorbing a gaze. It’s not always welcome, but being able to anticipate or subvert the power of being gazed at, of being read, for me, is wrapped in subverting expectations. My new favorite (and also most frustrating) words to hear are: “you don’t look like,” and the times when people first encounter my work after meeting me echo a similar sentiment, the surprise of what I am on a page versus what I look like.

Inside the notebook 1.


The author in the fall.

While I would not claim to be an experimental writer, pushing boundaries in expectation and language is extremely important to me as a writer and a reader. I am attracted to those who are willing to take risks for the sake of uncovering or presenting something new. In terms of the material of writing, though, I have found, despite my notebook fetish and desire to own every type of stationary in the world, a great comfort in a particular brand of notebook (Moleskine Large Plain Volant Notebooks, 5 x 8.5, 96 pages) and a particular type and color of pen (Muji black ink, 0.5 mm tip). The notebook is the perfect size to carry around in almost all bags, and 96 pages is not too daunting when completely empty. The Muji pen gives the perfect ink flow on the Moleskine’s acid free paper. It's cheesy, but true: it just feels right.

Notebook + pen.


Inside the notebook 2.

And from that, an important lesson in style: after all that experimentation, if you find something you love and works, stay with it. You make your own classics.

The iPod as an accessory.

Bio: Angela Veronica Wong is the author of the forthcoming chapbook 25 little red poems on dancing girl press, as well as two previously published chapbooks on Flying Guillotine Press and Cy Gist Press. Recent poems appear in H_NGM_N, Drunken Boat, and Columbia Poetry Review. She is almost always wearing big sunglasses and wearing dresses. Please visit her at www.angelaveronicawong.com.

April 18, 2011

Wedding Dress

by Daisy Rockwell


Wedding Dress

As a child, I drew incessantly. My parents, both artists, were perplexed, and eventually frustrated, by the fact that all my drawings were of beautiful, shapely women laden with accessories and wearing elaborate outfits. By high school, I had abandoned this subject matter, but sought another artistic preoccupation in vain. It was perhaps because of this loss of focus that I abandoned my artwork altogether and took a 15 year hiatus which led me through academia and eventually out the other end. When I reemerged, I found myself painting portraits of politicians, then figures of political import. I have been painting politically for five years now, incessantly, prolifically. It was only last week, when I painted the final installment of a series on the Egyptian protest movement, that my childhood obsession with fashion finally expressed itself in my political art.




Bio: Daisy Rockwell paints under the takhallus, or alias, Lapata (pronounced ‘láh-puh-táh’), which is Urdu for “missing,” or “absconded,” as in “my luggage is missing,” or “the bandits have absconded.” She posts her paintings regularly to Flickr, and writes for the blog Chapati Mystery and the literary review Bookslut. She has shown her work in San Francisco, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Washington, DC and North Adams, Massachusetts.

Lapata grew up in a family of artists in western Massachusetts, some whose work adorns the surfaces of chinaware and brightens up the waiting rooms of dentists’ offices, and others whose artistic output has found more select audiences. From 1992-2006, Lapata made a detour into Academia, from which she emerged with a PhD in South Asian literature, a book on Upendranath Ashk and a mild case of depression. Nonetheless, she sometimes still teaches Hindi.

Drag City: Some Sketches on Writing as Performance

by Cole Cohen



Why am I so fascinated by divas? Is it research for a rebirth? A crackling chrysalis split down the back like an ill fitting prom dress, revealing wings of wet pulp; shivering like a Chihuahua until the blood funnels through stiff tiny insect veins and I unfurl my majesty. Is there a term limit for divas? Is my application lost in the mail? Am I late for the coronation? Of course I am. So I peek through the curtains and giggle at the queen. Who can breath through all that taffeta? But the truth is I want you tighten my corset; make it so I can’t breathe.

I want to enforce a structure on my writing that pulls me in and pushes me up, forces an alluring overspill. Paragraphs feel baggy, loose fitting. Timelines and resumes and questionnaires act as a harness, pulling me in until my sentences inevitably runneth over. I want structure so that I can ooze through the cracks of it.

I write about bodies. I write about how they fail us and how we fail them. Cartoon bodies are invincible. Over and over again, they take a pummeling only to launch back up. Text is a cartoon body in which one transcends the limitations of physicality, where the dead spring back up, invincible. In writing no one stutters, Porky Pig should have been a writer. Text is the only body that can outrun time. Writing is a super power. It grants alter egos. By day, I am a mild mannered geek but by night, in front of my laptop, I am no longer limited by the squeeze box of my anatomy. I am endlessly elastic.

Text’s greatest gift to us its indifference to its user. It is entirely submissive. It will do nothing without your prodding it into order. The alphabet is free. You don’t have to take it dinner. It’s also not going anywhere. I have abandonded text, accusing it of abandoning me, but it never went anywhere. It stayed, waiting for me. It can wait longer than I can. There’s not getting rid of it, I’ve tried. Lucky for me, text cannot hold a grudge.

Writing is such an impossibly overarching super power, overwhelmingly simple. I am afraid of it, afraid of my own super power. When I say that writing is my super power, I do not mean that I am the best writer or even a good writer. I mean that the ability to sit down and type out thoughts, accompanied by the ability to read them, is beyond human. We make a big deal about how we are the only humans who are able to write but we don’t make a big deal about how we are the only humans who can ignore writing, who have the ability to process text but may choose not to. There is no other being on the planet who can skip down an article to the bottom of it. There is overwhelming power in what we choose not to do.

I have an invisible disability and an invisible ability. To look at me, you cannot see that I have a neurological condition and you cannot tell that I am writer. I am invisible. Our strengths and weakness are noble gases, impossible to outwardly detect. When I am out in the world these capabilities and incapabilities are cloaked. So why do I spend so much of my time hiding?

The blank page is an abandoned warehouse, dark and spooky and with the chilly sense that it is somehow living, waiting. Lyric essay or performative writing is like the artist who rather than filling up the warehouse cuts shapes out of it.


Copyright Cole Cohen 2011



Bio: Cole Cohen received her M.F.A. in creative writing from CalArts in 2009. She has been a Yaddo fellow and is currently a finalist for the 2011 Bakeless Prize in Nonfiction.

FRILLWHIPPER

by Caolan Madden



FRILLWHIPPER
a photo essay/personality test




Q: Would you believe that every morning I wake up in my black lace brassière and smudge the kohl-black sleep out of my eyes and stumble into my study where I snap open my mother's sea-green Viking sewing machine and sort of cast about me (in that green sea) for any old material--a towel, a carpet, a J Crew catalog, a couple of takeout boxes, some fascicles--and get the machine up humming and just start whipping frills?

a) yes
b) no



[Don't believe me. I don’t even know how you whip a frill. But I wish I could spend all morning positively whipping frills until I had something to put on and be and show. Whenever the spirit moved me. I wish I could do it on the Viking. I wish I could do it in my Kitchenaid mixer.]

Q: How do you whip a frill?
a) with an eggbeater
b) with a raglan sleeve
c) what did the frills do wrong?



[Instead I have this housedress of my grandmother's that I think about turning into a cocktail dress. In high school I learned how to make a pattern for a raglan sleeve. The cocktail dress isn't going to have raglan sleeves, so that knowledge is worthless. I hang the dress on the door, think about swanning around in this housedress, hopping around in that imagined cocktail dress. I could DEFINITELY make a paper doll of the cocktail dress. I could MAYBE make a poem of the cocktail dress. I could PROBABLY make a poem of the paper doll.]

Q: What kind of poem has raglan sleeves?
a – d) write your own poem on a separate sheet.



[I can't make clothes like poems/I’m not sure if I can make poems like clothes. I can put clothes in poems/read poems in clothes. One time I went around muttering "red shoes, red shoes." Then I bought these red shoes. I wore them with a red dress & a copy of Ulysses; with a blue dress & a copy of Romeo and Juliet; with a pink skirt & the Faber & Faber edition of Ariel, the one with red tulips on the front. Then I fell down in a park or something and wrote a poem about them! and in them!

Then people thought I liked shoes so they started buying me things shaped like shoes. Mostly those things are useless but this tape dispenser comes in pretty handy.]

Q: What is blurbling off your lips this morning? And is it also on your feet?

a) red-hot shoes in which I will dance to my death/obvs
b) "Unique New York"/sure
c) Scotch tape/maybe



[I could use these pins to stab-bind a fascicle. But I mostly don’t. I just use the tape dispenser and the Kitchenaid mixer and the shoes. But you know. Sometimes you need to learn to love frills before you can whip them.]

Q: Would you rather
a) whip frills
b) rip seams
c) stab bindings
d) stumble around in a black brassière

SCORING:
Mostly a’s: Your frills are dream-frills: so positively foamy they fill up the dream-frame. When we wake up they seem to be gone, but there are those telltale bubbles.
Mostly b’s: You seem to be able to make real frills; please send me some through the U.S. Postal Service.
Mostly c’s: I kind of think you are Emily Dickinson?
Mostly d’s: Let us put on our trashiest peignors and have a mint julep together or maybe a cherry coke.



Bio: Caolan Madden lives in Brooklyn & sometimes makes poem machines (but not sewing or mixing machines).

What Is It, and How Do You Use It

by Allison Layfield





What Is It, and How Do You Use It


I will answer when you learn with your fingers teasing
teeth pulling satin from skin us girls playing sneaky with the luger
from the underwear drawer it is a matter of manners you will discover
My Little guns when you master motion winks lips ungloving
your hands we call it Burlesque when you learn how to other people
grow in fragile comedy to twist a funnel of stocking
around your torso a limp cat a campy name we chase it Sister
it is a matter of noise damage your arm the serpent escaped.


Bio: Allison Layfield writes about princesses and the dresses and shoes that make them. She is on the editorial staff of Bone Bouquet, a journal of women's poetry.

White Dresses, Red Soles + Oil Paintings: Some Notes on Emily Dickinson, Christian Louboutin, + John Berger

by Daniela Olszewska



when i spent $[redacted] on a dress, some friends sniffed that my money could have been put to better use. they said i had no business supporting this industry dedicated to keeping the uber-rich prettily adorned. when i spent $[redacted] on a painting , some of these same friends congratulated me. they said it was good that i was in the business of supporting this industry dedicated to keeping the homes of the uber-rich prettily adorned.

dresses are frivolous.

paintings are ART.



[‘I died for Beauty—] (449)
Emily Dickinson

I died for Beauty -- but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining room --

He questioned softly "Why I failed"?
"For Beauty", I replied --
"And I -- for Truth -- Themself are One --
We Brethren, are", He said --

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night --
We talked between the Rooms --
Until the Moss had reached our lips --
And covered up -- our names --

let’s say beauty is fashion.

+ truth is ART.

++ BEAUTY is FASHION.

+++ TRUTH is ART, is BEAUTY, is FASHION.


our deliriously white-hemmed heroine was a fashion failure. i’m sure she wore white after labor day, to her brother’s wedding, to her garden parties with the finches, to her own funeral, even. emily’s white dress(es) is (in)famous not because it is/was particularly becoming but because it broke rules. it marked emily as a certain kind of woman, a poet. it marked her as a certain kind of poet. if you are a woman, if you are a poet, if you are a woman who is also a poet (or a poet who is also a woman), there is no such thing as ‘neutral’ clothing. everything you wear MEANS SOMETHING. everything you wear is a costume. an aesthetic argument. even if you’re just wearing a ratty pair of sweatpants + a grease-stained t-shirt you grabbed out of your roommate’s laundry hamper, you are making a FASHION STATEMENT. you are either following the rules are you aren’t (probably, if you’re a poet, this means you aren’t—). you are making a BEAUTY STATEMENT. an ART STATEMENT. a TRUTH STATEMENT. i mean, yea, work it.



REUTERS: NEW YORK— Paris-based designer Christian Louboutin, whose pumps have graced many fabulous and famous feet, sued fashion rival Yves Saint Laurent over the use of the color red on shoe soles…"The Red Sole has become synonymous with Christian Louboutin and high fashion," it (the lawsuit) said, adding that Louboutin had trademarked the design in the United States in 2008 (MSNBC, 4-8-11).

in fashion, you can trademark a color.

+ you can trademark the sole of a shoe.

++ fashion falls under the protection of intellectual property law. as do paintings. +++ poems.


but what would it look like for painter or poet 1 to sue painter or poet 2 for trademark infringement?

once, i wrote a poem about a dead rabbit (i was in undergrad—). i took it to workshop + some people praised it + some people thought it was kinda meh. the next week, another woman in the workshop brought in a poem about a dead hamster. now, a dead hamster is not a dead rabbit + this woman’s poem was very different from my poem (her poem, for example, was set in a second grade classroom whereas mine was set in a cemetery). but it still bothered me. a little bit, at the back of my throat. i felt as if she was copying me, STEALING FROM ME, even though I knew that, in poetry, there isn’t any such thing as stealing. there is only borrowing. homage. inspiration.


*

the louboutin brand should be rather familiar with the concept of borrowing. with paying homage. with taking inspiration. for their fall/winter 2010 campaign, louboutin put out adverts that mimicked seventeenth century oil paintings. the adverts were still lifes with louboutin shoes + the kind of foodstuffs the rich folk of the seventeenth century would velvet-line their bellies with, would commission still lifes of. the art historian/social critic john berger, writes a lot about oil paintings + consumerism in his seminal work ways of seeing. berger goes:

But what are these (seventeenth century oil] paintings? Before they are anything else, they are themselves objects which can be bought and owned. Unique objects. A patron cannot be surrounded by music or poems in the same way as he is surrounded by his pictures…They show him sights: sights of what he may possess.

i am trying to think of what i would like to possess. of what i would commission to have painted, to hang on my living room wall for others to see (to admire). (let’s remember this difference between the things one privately wants to possesses + the things one publicly wants to possess…) i see still life w/every book of poems i ever loved (an attempt to be ‘surrounded by poems in the same way i’m surrounded by paintings…). still life w/dior coat + la sorrentina coffee machine. still life w/book deal + receipt proving i have paid off the last of my student loans. still life w/second generation iPad. still life w/valentine from a woman i respect + admire. still life w/burmese cat + blue velvet chaise lounger. still life w/a dictator-free belarus. still life w/one of emily dickinson’s white dresses. still life w/vodka gimlet + summer sunburn in new orleans.



Publicity images (advertisements) also belong to the moment in the sense that they must be continually renewed and made up-to-date. Yet they never speak of the present. Often they refer to the past and always they speak of the furute…[they] propose to each of us that we transform ourselves, or our lives, by buying something more. This more, it proposes, will make us in some way richer—even though we will be poorer by having spent our money. Publicity persuades us of such a transformation by showing us people who have apparently been transformed and are, as a result, enviable. The state of being envied is what constitiutes glamour. And publicity is the process of manufacturing glamour.

berger goes on to take a rather dim view of manufactured glamour, he dismisses it as a byproduct of the industrial revolution, capitalism, + the rise of advertising. but, berger’s description also sounds dangerously close to the description of the project of poetry-making. poems must continously be renewed and made up-to-date. they might speak of the present but more often than not they refer to the past + always, always, always the future.

do poems produce envy though? i don’t know. do readers envy the personas in poems? sometimes. if the personas seem especially free of whatever’s weighing down on the poetry reader (job, spouse, credit card debt, cancer, systematic government opression…). is that the poet’s job, then? to create an enviable, glamorous world for their readers? in order to motivate their readers to—what?—
transform herself. not by buying an item persay, but by buying whatever the hell it is that the poet is selling. this is what we mean when we say i like what she’s putting down. poems are, maybe, publicity for the poet’s ideas about BEAUTY + ART ++ TRUTH.+++ poems are publicity statements for the poet’s FASHION.


***


Bio: Daniela Olszewska is the author of six chapbooks, including The Partial Autobiography of Jane Doe (dancing girl press), Citizen Jane Trains For Many Different Kinds of Careers (horse less press), and halfsteps + cloudfang (plumberries press). She lives in Tuscaloosa, where she is purusing her MFA at the University of Alabama. With Carol Guess, she is working on a manuscript of poems inspired by the website wikiHOW. Daniela recently spent less than $100 on a white, floor-length Dior coat from the 1950’s.