Takeshi Hosaka - Room Room (2011)
The residents of Hosaka’s Room Room are a deaf couple and their two hearing-able children. The windows in its walls and ceilings serve as means of easy communication and visibility among the family. The children sometimes drop small toys attached to strings to gain their parents’ attention from the second floor down to the first and Mom and Dad can sign to each other from separate rooms.
(via villere)Source: likeafieldmouse
This is so true for a whole assortment of things but I’ve never been able to put it into words. Like when people find out I’m queer and they suddenly act less homophobic. I have relatives who magically stop showing their racist tendencies around people of color. Just because you don’t display your prejudice around the people you’re prejudiced against doesn’t make you a good person - it still means you’re shitty, but also extra shitty because you realize your behavior is offensive and you only display it around people who won’t be immediately harmed.
In the wake of the new J. D. Salinger biography, Joyce Maynard, author of the poignant At Home in the World: A Memoir, steps forward to reveal an ominous side of the revered author, exploring its implications for our cultural mythology of genius and how it bespeaks “the quiet acceptance, apparently alive and well in our culture, of the notion that genius justifies cruel or abusive treatment of those who serve the artist and his art”:
I was 18 when he wrote to me in the irresistible voice of Holden Caulfield, though he was 53 at the time. Within months I left school to live with Salinger; gave up my scholarship; severed relationships with friends; disconnected from my family; forswore all books, music, food and ideas not condoned by him. At the time, I believed I’d be with Jerry Salinger forever.
His was a seduction played out with words and ideas, not lovemaking, but to the young girl reading those words — as with a few million other readers — there could have been no more powerful allure.
Salinger wasn’t simply brilliant, funny, wise; he burrowed into one’s brain, seeming to understand things nobody else ever had. His expressions of admiration (“I couldn’t have created a character I love more than you”) were intoxicating. His dismissal and contempt, when they came, were devastating.
I was 19 when he put two $50 bills in my hand and sent me away. Years after he dismissed me, his voice stayed in my head, offering opinions on everything he loved and all that he condemned. This was true even though, on his list of the condemned, was my own self.
I am now 59. Let a man tell me now that I am of no worth or value, and never will be and the man will be diminished in my eyes. But when a man who had become for me the possessor of all wisdom told me these things, when I was 18, the one diminished was myself.
There is art, and there are artists. Let’s not confuse the two.
Artwork by Eleni Kalorkoti
On the left we have the lyrics from Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines. On the right we rape survivors participating in Project Unbreakable, showing the various things that were said to them by their rapist.
(via lori-up)Source: emhemingway