WOMEN ON TOP
The sexually-charged art form Hysterical Literature once again turns the spotlight on feminism—Sonali Kokra wonders if it’s setting the pace for the movement to return
I have a very tumultuous relationship with art. More often than not, we don’t agree. I look at celebrated works by world-renowned artists and feel nothing. I’m told art gives voice to the ethos of a country, a movement, and its people; but my own intellect remains unstirred. I routinely wander into galleries in search of an emotional awakening; I want art to change my life. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the problem. Why don’t Louise Bourgeois’s sculptures strike me as powerful explorations of sexuality and the physical form? Why doesn’t Marina Abramovic’s penetrating gaze move me to tears? Why don’t Kara Walker’s graphic silhouettes make me recoil in shock and horror? Am I frigid? And then, my life changed. A video project by an artist I’d never heard of turned up in my inbox. What could
Hysterical Literature possibly mean? It is a seven-part project by American artist Clayton Cubitt, each part filming a session with a woman reading from a book. Each woman starts resolutely—body-confident and voice-assertive. But soon, their voices crack and their breaths hitch. Some clutch the table to keep themselves from keeling over. Without exception, each one tries to restrain her body’s reaction to whatever it is that’s going on. You can see the shock on their faces, because none of them expected their bodies to betray their minds so unabashedly. The female form is, after all, conditioned to obey. What the viewer does not see, but later surmises, is that the persistent hum from underneath the table is a vibrator.
By the time I finished watching all the videos, their sexual nature had become incidental; more important were the women and the passages they had chosen to read. Each woman is trying to tell a story—of skewed gender roles, the helplessness of never truly owning the body that their mind inhabits and, most importantly, of dancing the feminist dance long after the music had stopped. The clamour of thoughts made me seek out the two women who had affected me the most. Solé, a writer, tells me that this act of rebellion is her bid to take back control of her body. “It’s the happiest I’ve been in a while,” she admits. “Despite the parental disapproval and slut-shaming.” Danielle, a photographer, says the project helped her understand what happiness looks like.
It’s been a while since I heard women identify with the feminist agenda so enthusiastically. Everywhere I look, I see women in power distancing themselves from the f-word, as if it were an expletive. But these proud proclamations give me hope that one day feminism will be back on the streets—where it was born and where it belongs. They remind me of the stories I grew up with: Of the Fresno Feminist Art Program, Linda Nochlin’s revolutionary paper on women and art, Judy Chicago’s Dinner Party and The Guerrilla Girls. When I see women overthrowing the powers that colonise their bodies, it gives me hope. Making art the weapon of choice, gives me immense satisfaction. After all, what’s a more aesthetic way of showing misogyny the middle finger?
Each woman starts resolutely—body-confident and voice-assertive. But soon, their voices crack and their breaths hitch. None of them expected their bodies to betray their minds so unabashedly.