butterflies are just moths with colour on them they’re not pretty they’re like if you take david cameron and put him in fishnets and stilettos. still looks like a dickhead
You might remember that earlier I mentioned I clicked the link provided by Azealia Banks of her remix, only to find it had been taken down. Banks posted the remix on soundcloud, but Baauer and his labelmate Diplo demanded it be taken down because it was an un-authorized remix. Aside from the obvious rejoinder that the majority of soundcloud is unauthorized remixes, this episode reveals the difference of power that negotiates the “open” space of the internet. We have a white producer, who is accused of appropriating Harlem culture, attacking a black female rapper born in Harlem of improperly using his “intellectual property.” Black claims to propriety are met with crickets, while a white man’s claim is heard and acted upon to the detriment of Banks. Diplo took to twitter to begin the anti-Banks commentary, while Banks refused to back down. She made a music video and posted it to youtube, ensuring that her fans would still have access to the song. The spat continued on twitter though, with Banks inadvertently calling Baauer the “F-word.” This re-ignited a sleeping giant in Azealia Banks’ burgeoning career, which is her intramural relations with the LGBT civil rights apparatus, as well as gay male media figures, that simultaneously support and police her. This conversation is deep and necessary (for a much better handling of this topic, click here), yet for the purposes of this essay it is important to mention this because much of the coverage of this “twitter beef” was to categorize this as “yet another Azealia Banks beef.” There is an almost universal consensus that Banks starts and maintains beefs with producers, a storyline Baauer and Diplo cited and perpetuated to deflect attention away from their own fault. Baauer and Diplo’s story is that Banks recorded a remix and they asked her to not post it because they decided to go into a different direction. The different direction was to get Juicy J to record a remix and release that as the official remix. What this mystifies is what Banks brought up: the fact that they came to Banks asking her to remix it initially and then, at the last second, after she had worked, mixed, prepared a marketing strategy, aligned it with her own schedule, and shot a video, they decided they did not want her to go forward with it. So, Baauer and Diplo decided that Banks’ life and career should take a backseat because they wanted another, more famous, black artist to remix their song.
What is happening here is a politics of obliteration. That Banks is thought to be replaceable by Juicy J is emblematic of what so many black people in popular culture have attested to: the systemic belief in the interchangeability of black entertainers. The thought here is that a black female rapper from Harlem can be replaced by a black male rapper from Memphis, Tennessee. Baauer attempts to say that he thought Azealia Banks’ lyrics were only so-so and believed Juicy J could do better. If this is not an example of a white man talking out of his ass, I am not sure what is. I do not need to get into the technical aspects of rapping to say Azealia Banks could destroy any rapper who’s idea of a great song is, “Bands ‘a make her dance.” But this is not about Juicy J, this is about Baauer and the meaning of blackness to his ability to produce music. For him, black culture is not an other’s thing made in specific contexts, but instead are loose, unowned resources of “cool” to be stretched, interpolated, and sequenced into a dramatic product to produce his own name. Thus, the being of black culture (its claims to place and time) are obliterated so that he may write himself into existence over the cleared field. Saidiya Hartman writes, “The elasticity of blackness and its capacious affects enabled such flights and becomings… The fungibility of the commodity, specifically its abstractness and immateriality, enabled the black body to serve as the vehicle of self-exploration, renunciation, and enjoyment” (Hartman, 25). Thus, Baauer is not simply emblematic of an internet-age, post-genre music culture, but is instead an example par excellance of the white imagination using the black body as a vehicle for its own purposes. In other words, Baauer is not (only) a thief, he is a master.
Damn this is good. I wish I wrote it :/
Thus, Baauer is not simply emblematic of an internet-age, post-genre music culture, but is instead an example par excellance of the white imagination using the black body as a vehicle for its own purposes. In other words, Baauer is not (only) a thief, he is a master.
Diplo is the scum of the fucking earth. I hope his eardrums rupture so he can never steal music and culture again.
check out the other work on that blog (outofnowhere.blogspot.com). Both (I think right now it’s still only two) of those thinkers are PHENOMENAL. Murillo & Brady’s work can also be found on thefeministwire.com.
wow. these are the kinds of conversations and writing i like. *goes to read more*
The male type is characterised by a detached, if not outright dysfunctional, sensibility: retreat from a perplexing and frustrating emotional world into an intellectual domain in which their precocious facility with words and images affords them a degree of mastery and skewed self-understanding. “Girls” are then somewhat unfortunately positioned as gateways into the abandoned realm of sensual and emotional connection, and alternately idealised as muses/sex-goddesses and denigrated as (variously) narcissists, seducers, trivial beings, neurotic leeches, etc. (Dworkin’s inventory of misogynist stereotypes remains one of the most comprehensive and deeply-felt). Duncan Thaw’s alternating attraction towards and contempt for Kate Caldwell is exemplary here, as is his delirious observation that “men are pies that bake and eat themselves, and the recipe is hate”.
Young female intellectuals (again, I’m talking about the characters one encounters in books, such as the memoirs mentioned above) seem to have problems not so much with “boys” as with themselves: boys are a nuisance insofar as they behave unfeelingly and unpleasantly, rather than because they represent an unattainable connection with some inaccessible reality. It is a matter of reconciling, or finding ways of living with not being able to reconcile, one’s full and contradictory humanity with the simplified and diminished humanity encoded as “femininity”; resisting (rather than transcending) confinement, the “women’s room” of narrowed scope and lowered expectations. The problem is then one of knowing what to do with oneself, where to put all that stuff for which there appears to be neither place nor name.
Well, then, suppose my auto-repair man devised questions for an intelligence test. Or suppose a carpenter did, or a farmer, or, indeed, almost anyone but an academician. By every one of those tests, I’d prove myself a moron, and I’d be a moron, too. In a world where I could not use my academic training and my verbal talents but had to do something intricate or hard, working with my hands, I would do poorly. My intelligence, then, is not absolute but is a function of the society I live in and of the fact that a small subsection of that society has managed to foist itself on the rest as an arbiter of such matters.
Consider my auto-repair man, again. He had a habit of telling me jokes whenever he saw me. One time he raised his head from under the automobile hood to say: “Doc, a deaf-and-mute guy went into a hardware store to ask for some nails. He put two fingers together on the counter and made hammering motions with the other hand. The clerk brought him a hammer. He shook his head and pointed to the two fingers he was hammering. The clerk brought him nails. He picked out the sizes he wanted, and left. Well, doc, the next guy who came in was a blind man. He wanted scissors. How do you suppose he asked for them?”
Indulgently, I lifted my right hand and made scissoring motions with my first two fingers. Whereupon my auto-repair man laughed raucously and said, “Why, you dumb jerk, He used his voice and asked for them.” Then he said smugly, “I’ve been trying that on all my customers today.” “Did you catch many?” I asked. “Quite a few,” he said, “but I knew for sure I’d catch you.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Because you’re so goddamned educated, doc, I knew you couldn’t be very smart.” —
Isaac Asimov (via skinnybaras)
I keep seeing this post around!!! I’v e been going, sure, yeah good point if you’ve never come across any critiques of IQ tests and stuff, fair enough, but it bothered me.
I couldn’t put my finger on what bothered me til now: it’s that he thinks all the skills he doesn’t have are the kind that you learn so you have A Job. He’s got one job, why’d he need any of the rest of this knowledge. But… guess what Asimov, working in a garage or in any of those industries is still a job with a wage that’s recognised as socially valuable, and that’s not the only kind of work there is. You know what isn’t A Job? Housekeeping, cooking, gardening, working as a carer. This idea that in a world where if he couldn’t earn a living as an academic he’d have to learn manual labour skills, but that luckily he can so he’ll never have to? That’s some bullshit right there.
Y’know what Asimov? Loads of us started learning some of those oh-so-complicated manual dexterity skills as pre-teens because it makes sense for everyone in a family to cook dinner sometimes, or maybe just ‘cause we were girls and we ought to know how to cook. Taking care of the place you live is work and a skill-set and you can choose to learn it if you want to take care of your home. You and everyone fucking else can learn it.
Lacan doesn’t say that love is a disguise for sexual relationships; he says that sexual relationships don’t exist, that love is what comes to replace that non-relationship. That’s much more interesting. This idea leads him to say that in love the other tries to approach “the being of the other”. In love the individual goes beyond himself, beyond the narcissistic. In sex, you are really in a relationship with yourself via the mediation of the other. The other helps you to discover the reality of pleasure. In love, on the contrary the mediation of the other is enough in itself. Such is the nature of the amorous encounter: you go to take on the other, to make him or her exist with you, as he or she is. It is a much more profound conception of love than the entirely banal view that love is no more than an imaginary canvas painted over the reality of sex.” —Alain Badiou, In Praise of Love (via heteroglossia)
From Édouard Boubat: A Gentle Eye (via liquidnight)
Tim Wise wouldn’t exist but for the blood of Afrikans standing up for themselves for generations.
oh the fucking irony
I find it interesting and sad that radical feminism and ecofeminism are so commonly described as essentialist, given that to my knowledge they are the two feminist tendencies with the most explicit critiques of “essences”. Radical feminists challenge the existence of a female “gender essence”, which encodes women’s oppressed condition, and argue instead that women’s situation is created through social structures and women’s own resistance to those structures. And ecofeminists challenges the existence of a special “human essence” that inheres most strongly in white men and is linked to rationality, transcendence and control over the nature realm (understood as the realm not possessing that essence).
do you think men will sit together in groups of themselves talking only to themselves? do you think that when women talk men will interrupt women? do you think men will explain to women what the women already know? do you think men will act as if the women said nothing at all? do you think that women will sit quietly and say nothing unless asked directly? do you think women will dismiss argument and abstraction out of self-protection or exasperation at the way they are excluded, ignored, and punished? do you think there will be women who insult themselves or pretend to be stupid? do you think there will be women who will just sit there and watch? do you think that women who do not sit there and watch will be understood to be crazy or shrill or angry or foolish or unserious? do you think that there will be women who will be brilliant, original, and vital, whose brilliance and originality will be understood to be mad? do you think men who are not briliant, original, and vital, will be understood to be so? do you think that women who do not sit quietly but have effectively watched the men and taken notes and made extensive preparations to behave in ways to please them will please them and then be used to excoriate the other women? do you think you think there are women who will worry under these social conditions that to be respected is a nightmare like being mocked? do you think that women will know the boundaries which circumscribe their behavior and know full well the social consequences of exceeding these boundaries? do you think women will not be divided about how to be in the boundaries? do you think there will be a fumbling struggle for solidarity? do you think there are women who will worry about their clothes, their bodies, how to obscure these bodies, how to neutralize? do you think there are men who have never once worried about how to present themselves neutrally? do you think there will be many aggressions, minor and major, of ommissions and attentions, of arrangements of bodies, of voices which speak or are silent, of ideas not said or said, of judgments made or not made, of occlusions and dominent visions, of sexual aggressions, minor and major?