#i also need to know if this means that from bridget's perspective her daughter was just one day suddenly traumatized

[addictsitter]

have not rambled about it here yet so i'm overdue but i watched rise of red.

in accordance with the rest of the franchise, it has its cheesy moments, its utter disrespect for its own established canon, etc etc. special effects budget was ten whole dollars and a shoestring this time. (note: they spent zero of that on cinderella's glass slippers. those shoes were in a league of their own tbh)

rita ora was really good as the queen of hearts. that one surprised me a little tbh. kylie cantrall was a delight as red and malia baker did great as chloe.

we're gonna pretend i did not bawl like a baby at brandy and paolo montalban. kay? kay.

once again, descendants lives up to its predecessors in themes, i will say that. the queen's clear emotional abuse of red was good and led to what is probably one of my favorite lines in the movie? specifically from "love ain't it" when red sings "you say 'love ain't it' and i wish i could compete with all the grief that you've experienced" bc that's just? that's such a way to phrase that??

the continued use of "people aren't inherently born evil" once again coming up with bridget was great because it's such a good way to continue underscoring it and how trauma can shape a person.

biggest bangers go to "red" and "get your hands dirty" which might be my favorite song in the entire movie?? malia and morgan killed it?? and the discussion of how everything isn't black and white, how there's perspective to things, how compromise isn't bad and how sometimes you can and will do anything for someone you love... i just love it?? so much.

the plot felt a little rushed but that happens with every descendants movie tbh.

OH and one thing i loved was ella's line about how bad people don't think they're bad and how that ties into audrey's perspective in "queen of mean" in d3 and "i never thought of myself as mean" and chad's... everything.

did i care for their disregard of established canon to turn it into a high school au? not necessarily, but high school hades and maleficent were fucking funny. also aladdin and jasmine being That Couple was fucking adorable, no lie.

(shout out to red's "okay" and chloe's "that's my dad" "...ew")

also?? i don't know why they cut most of the first verse of "fight of our lives" but that was fun and i loved it and i loved that the girls got the homoerotic swordfight

[still-finding-our-way]

R5, R6

(SX 540672) 12/12/ 2020

Serendipity, rhizomes and lines. 

On my studio desk I have a number of rocks, stones and pebbles. None are particularly rare or precious, most have been collected locally yet every one is an object of beauty. One such stone is a sharp piece of flint. Small enough to hold in my palm, it has become my go to de-stress stone. I like to let its razor sharp edges bite, just a bit, into soft skin. My teasing wake up call. It has volume and weight, four planes—a tetra. One side runs smooth, curving to meet a granular knobbly surface, bone-like and skeletal, like the indenture of a clavicle or ankle bone. The underside of the stone is cut sheer, sliced through its core, creating a flat expanse onto which it is able to stand upright, before rising into a terraced plane, each step the size of a thumb print, a patternation that reveals the cryptocrystalline formation of flint (‘crypto’ meaning ‘secret’ or ‘hidden’). I found it on a beach in Cornwall. A dark grey stone with a white thread running through its centre. Its shape and size tickles my imagination, and as I turn the flint over in my hand I play with the idea that it was used as a Neolithic arrowhead, chipped away, stone on stone some 5000 years ago. The structure of flint requires a level of skill and expertise to shape; one wrong strike will send fracture lines through the stone rendering it useless as a tool. Our early ancestors were artisans and makers. Over and over, I have drawn this stone, feeling it’s texture, the sharp edges and definite weight in my palm. It does not take up much space and yet every time I draw it, a different angle or plane opens up. It is never the same. A small rock, inert and fixed, offering infinite possibilities.

You think you know something, someone, some place. A line on the horizon, a spit away from the sea and moor. Clambering over rocks, swimming in icy rivers and streams, climbing trees and making dens. 'Whence cam'st thou, mighty thane', pronounces Duncan in Act 1 of Macbeth. The utterance of such a question now comes with a cautionary red flag, one that implies exclusion and ‘you are not from here’. Too bad, coming from a white working class background, where histories and lives are lost, undocumented and unrecorded, I have no idea where my roots are tangled. I cometh from nowhere, no fixed abode, shallow rooted, spun together by frail relatives that can’t, or don’t want to, remember. To remedy this unknown, I was gifted by my eldest daughter a DNA test for my 50th birthday. The results from my spit reveal a blueprint that aligns with peoples who cluster around the North East of England, with a smattering of Swedish, Norwegian, Icelandic, Scottish and Irish. Farmers and seafarers I suspect, a web of people who somehow managed to survive hunger and disease, violence and brutality, the lustful fumble in the hay and the traumatic birth. The odds were not good—about one in 400 trillion chance of being born according to the boffins. In staking a claim on the improbability of existence we got lucky, very lucky.

Where we come from and who we are. Layers of paint, fresh applications, still wet bleeding into others, making new colours and new pictures. Blending and binding. Some work and some don’t. It seems so arbitrary how we come to be. I should make time to salute the stream of past people, winding all the way back to the bones of dear Lucy, 3.2 million years ago, and her mother and grand-mother, all coming and going, doing their time. But, I won’t, it's enough to breathe in the noise of now. One heart beat, a blink of the eye and we are gone. Serendipity, luck, random, the throw of the dice. The cells didn’t bind in the correct sequence and the possibility of life just slipped down the toilet. Is it any wonder we seek out patterns to create order and structure, finding comfort in numbers and story; assigning value in the unexpected, and agreeableness in what wasn’t sought. Ones and zero’s, lines and dots, giving shape to all things. Artists do this all the time. Seeking opportunity in the accidental and unintended. Any stick, stone, door, book, conversation opening up new creative possibilities. The rhizomes seeking out a good place to settle, a place to nourish. The patterns, whether real or not, helping to make sense of the intensity of the here and now. 

Jennie’s story is fascinating. Her blue eyes, flaxen hair and Bridget Bardot pout might have you thinking she is of Swedish heritage, whilst my dark skin, hair and black eyes has in the past suggested Mediterranean roots. Not so, the paint palette is muddied. I will let Jennie tell her story. One thing to note here though, Jennie is an adventurer, she has travelled all over the world: on her own, through work, with friends and lovers. Occasionally I have joined her but mostly I skirt the edges of Western art history, moseying around European capital cities, museums and galleries. Both of us are wanderers in different ways. Parallel lines. The same but different. I am amused to read that women of ‘a certain age’ partake in what Jennie and I are doing—walking and exploring local history. I also note the term ‘a certain age’ is often used to describe middle-aged women, usually accompanied by a roll of the eyes and a double-fingered quotation sign. It is basically code for women no longer of a fertile age—post 40 and therefore deemed unattractive, and given age tends to gift experience (though not always) they carry a certain confidence i.e., speak their mind and know what they want.  

A simple stone. We are breathing, blinking and unstill. 

We ask ourselves how did we not know about this walk? It is literally a stones throw from Jennie’s parents village, just over the hill yonder, where Jennie spent her teenage years and part of her adulthood, and where I lived for awhile whilst homeless and lovelorn. Of all the places on Dartmoor this is an area that I would confidently say we know well, and yet here we are discovering new trails, hidden valleys, different perspectives and layers and layers of history, a thread of which connects with Jennie’s recent travel’s with her son to the other side of the world. The walk begins in the small Devon village of Meavy on the southwest of Dartmoor, a place I have cycled and walked through many times, enjoying a sup or two at the Royal Oak on the way. The route follows the river Meavy upstream to Burrator dam not far from Down Tor, where Jennie first set this adventure in motion as we glugged champagne and watched the setting of a glorious October sun. From Burrator, the road winds through Sheepstor village and into the woods where earlier in the year, at the height of bluebell season, I waited with my children for the badger's to come out. Hunkered down amongst bramble and fern at dusk, quiet as mice, hearing the birds hush and darkness settle. The children were not scared but reverent and awed by being in the woods at night, a time and place synonymous with the darker side of fairytales: of wolves, witches and being lost, and where the unknown and the unformed lurk. We whispered and signed to each other in the darkening gloom, until we no longer needed words and laid back in a bed of fern, faces turned upwards, watching the patchwork of sky between the canopy high above turn from indigo to midnight blue and then merge dark into the tall trees, the cool air lulling us to sleep. 

The ax strikes and life reclaims as swift as the blade can cut. My hand brushes the damp surface of a lopped off tree stump in the woods down from the reservoir, and I stop to observe a platter of squirming, burrowing, scuttling, squirrelling, decaying life; three empty acorn shells evidence a previous luncheon. I have set the objective to notice more when I am on these walks, to seek out habitat changes and to learn and know the names of things. But always I surrender to just being, breathing in the light and air, the atmosphere. I feel happy on these walks, a sense of euphoria and lightness washing over. It feels good to leave aside the cerebral and to let the physical, the motion of walking awaken a realm of sensing and scanning. She doesn’t say but I know Jennie has arranged this walk pre-Christmas because she is aware I am struggling with sadness—a sadness caused by my natural melancholia and tendency to ruminate, and a much bigger life crisis. Battle hardened to general romantic crisis’ I am not so experienced with career rifts, and so I have withdrawn and pulled down the blinds. But it won’t do and I know, as Jennie does, that the moor will help to alleviate the mental muddle I am in, and even if the effects are only temporary, it will store up the memory bank, to plunder and remember during the times when I get locked in. 

Ten minutes into the walk Jennie spots a Heron standing stock still in the woods by the river Meavy. Camouflaged against the bare trees, charcoal grey and ochre, we watch it rise and drift across the valley. Great grey wings, near 6ft in span, pulse slowly, its head and neck arrow-like thrust forward piercing space. It has a primordial presence. In mythology it is linked to the sacred Ibis, a bird revered by the Egyptians as representing Thoth—their god of wisdom, writing and magic. I take it as a good omen. The wood is dazzling, ice cold water tumbling down from Burrator reservoir. Wood, rock and foliage glisten from the early morning downfall, the ground water-logged from weeks of incessant rain. The element of water is strong here, 4210 mega litres—enough to quench the thirst of a city and the surrounding hinterland—held in check by towering granite slabs that form a 23.5 metre high gorge. Completed in 1898 and extended in 1923, the reservoir pools run-off from the surrounding moor and water from the river Meavy. Standing downstream from the dam in the wooded valley I hope the granite wall holds strong. The sun breaks through and turns up the volume on colour. Saturated greens: acid, moss, lichen, pine and fern. We watch a man on the other side of the steep valley, oblivious to our presence, pissing freely, a spray of urine forming a perfect arc; glinting golden droplets catching the sunlight.

Having learned nothing from our previous walks we decided not to take the obvious path and instead followed the course of the river upstream. This meant having to clamber over rocks and fallen trees, until we reach the imposing dam wall and are forced to scrabble up the steep bank, thick with mud, to get back on the road. Jennie leads the way, an experienced hash runner not deterred by the muddy terrain, she turns into a sure-footed mountain goat, while I, slip-sliding, defy gravity and somehow fall up the slope. Walking over Burrator bridge we pass the man we saw pissing earlier and beam broadly, making sure we hold eye contact for a bit longer than comfortable for him. We then follow the road up to Sheepstor village, and—given we are women of ‘a certain age’—we are keen to nosey round St Leonards, the C15th village church. But sadly, the door is locked so instead we admire the Lych gate, a covered over a double gate with a lychstone to rest the coffin before entering (‘Lych’ or ‘lich’ meaning corpse in Old English). At the time I did not notice the foliate skull carving above the main door, only a little while later when we sat for lunch under a massive oak tree, which we reckoned to be near on 500 years old given the size of its girth, do I undertake a little online searching and read to Jen a short history of the church and its whereabouts.

So intrigued by what I find that I go back a couple days later, this time with my dog and younger children in tow. In particular I wanted to see the foliate skull above the porch. In recent years there has been a growing interest in Pagan symbology such as the ‘Green Man’ and the ‘Three Hares’, several examples of which can be found in churches across Dartmoor. The ‘Green Man’ is usually represented as a carved face with foliage growing from the head, mouth, nose, ears and eyes. It is presumed to be a pre-christian Pagan symbol representing renewal and life—from death comes life—that has been absorbed into Christian ideas of resurrection and life after death. Often found in churches and cathedrals across Europe, its more macabre cousin, the foliate skull, is said to have appeared after the Black Death in the 14th century. The skull at St Leonards church is carved with ears of wheat sprouting from the eye sockets above an hourglass. The suggested date of its making is given as 1640 and it is suspected to have originally been part of a sundial. Now it sits behind glass in a small recess above the porch, and on this particular day was partially obscured by condensation so I could not see the inscription incorporated into the sculpture: ‘UT HORA SIC VITA’ (As the hour so life passes), ’MORS JANUA VITA’ - (Death is the door of life) and ‘ANIMA REVERTET’ (the soul will return).

As a motif representing vegetation, rebirth and resurrection, the ‘Green Man’ archetype is found in many cultures across the world, including the ancient Egyptian God Osiris, the god of fertility, agriculture, death and resurrection, who is often depicted as green skinned, alongside several green figures found in Nepal, India, Iraq and Lebanon, the latter dated to the 2nd century. I wonder how far the Green Man story goes back? As a cross cultural archetype it suggests a commonality of belief about the life cycle that is interconnected with the land. Whilst its incorporation into ecclesiastical architecture alongside other apparent Pagan motifs, points to the fluidity and evolution of belief systems, which subsume and build on pre-existing ideas, even when the incoming authority seems most rigid and contained. Most of the what we know about the ‘Green Man’ is based on speculation and supposition, as we have no historical evidence as to why and for what reason they were made. Instead the ‘Green Man’ motif has been reclaimed and remoulded at various points in history from Romanticism to Neo-Paganism and most recently as a symbol for the environmental movement.

A little village church under the shadow of the looming granite tor on the southern edge of Dartmoor, connected through culture and shared beliefs with a much wider world and history. If the Green Man does not provide enough evidence of these interconnections, then the large sarcophagus, protected by iron railings in the churchyard, and housing the remains of James Brooke, First Rajah of Sarawak (29 April 1803 – 11 June 1868) alongside two other White Rajahs should affirm the connections without doubt. It was whilst peeling the shell off hard-boiled eggs, freshly laid by my chickens that morning, at the foot of the big oak tree that Jennie realised that she had previously encountered the story of James Brooke whilst travelling through Borneo with her son. A sultry jungle, 7,000 miles away on the other side of the world tied by empire and colonialism, violence, power and trade to this peaceable village. I find out a little more about James, the questions concerning his sexuality and love for men stick with me more than the dates, titles, skirmishes and conquests. I go back again to the church on new years day and with fresh snow on the ground, sipping steaming hot chocolate on the bench overlooking Brooke’s slab of a tombstone, I retell the story of what I know to my children. They hang off the iron railings and argue over the remains of the Christmas chocolate, I don’t think they were listening.

SC

Reading: Lyon, N., (2016) Uprooted: On the trail of the green man (London, Faber & Faber).

https://www.legendarydartmoor.co.uk/sheepstor_church

[bridgetbites]

Bridget Bites : Advice To The Parent Of A New Model

Q :

Hi Bridget, hope all well. If my daughter was to find herself being approached to work in modelling, what would be the key pieces of advice/guidance you would give to her parents? Many thanks.

A :

Hi! Navigating the modeling world as a parent can be extremely confusing and tricky. My parents did a great job of protecting me as a teenager (thanks mum and dad!) and they traveled with me to every job until I was 18 years old. I am very thankful that they did this now; it takes a lot of the stress off you and saves you from any situation that you may be uncomfortable with as a young female model. As a parent you have to be smart, use your instinct with people and keep involved as much as is acceptable.

1. Make sure your daughter has a good mother agent.

This is the most important point. If your daughter has a good mother agent, then she will be well taken care of. Your mother agent is your first agent, and they place your daughter with her agencies in each market/city. I have an independent mother agent (not affiliated with specific modeling agencies), and he travels with all his young models. He makes sure there is no nudity on set for his underage girls, he helps them with their castings, he makes sure they are eating well – he basically takes care of them when the parents can’t be around. Make sure your daughter has someone like this in her team; it is the most important factor in ensuring her safety. I still rely on my mother agent when I am having a tough time; when I am burned out and need a few days to myself, when I don’t feel up to a job, or when something happens that I don’t like. An independent mother agent is not assigned to any agency, and thus has no affiliations with other people in the industry. They work for you and your daughter only. (FYI - I work with Joe Marino at New Scouting Management)

2. Do your research.

Your mother agent will be the one placing your daughter with her agencies, and you will be going to a round of meetings of suitable agencies. Pay close attention to the vibe of the bookers at the agencies – are they happy, honest people? Or does your instinct tell you they’re a little off? Keep in mind that they will probably want to sign your daughter and will promise you the moon and stars. So every interaction you have with them, keep it in perspective. Spend a little time online googling the agencies. Check if there have been any lawsuits over money and any trouble with models leaving agencies. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

3. Go with your daughter to set.

When your daughter is underage, always have someone on set with her. Either your mother agent or yourself. It is good in the early days for you to go with her, just so you can see what actually happens on set. Modeling shoots are usually quite boring for the people not involved, and very tame, so it helps to see this with your own eyes. If your daughter has a job that requires her to travel, go with her. You will usually have to pay your own way, but it will help your daughter ease into this world. When you are on set, check in with your daughter, meet the team, and then stay out of it. Don’t go around to the hair and makeup people asking questions, don’t hover over the photographer (watch the first shot then get out) and don’t get in anyone’s way. Be subtle when making sure your daughter’s outfits are ok. Everyone here is doing a job, and nobody wants a stage mum/dad. This is your daughter’s career, and you are here for her. Do check in with your daughter at suitable times, to make sure everything is ok.

4. Check in with your daughter in life.

If after a few jobs your daughter isn’t vibing modeling, make sure you are aware of it. Modeling is not for everyone, and if you hate it, do not do it. It isn’t worth the pain! Make sure you and your daughter are on the same page, and never ever force her to continue if she doesn’t like it.

5. Instill good eating and workout habits.

Newsflash – models are thin! Eating disorders and bad body image run rampant in this industry. Luckily the trend towards fitter girls is real. But I believe that good body image starts at home. If she gets told to lose weight, then work with her in a healthy way to teach her about eating well. Don’t get caught up in any trendy diet, and do not dog her and force her to eat a certain way. Educate, lead by example, and show her ways to stay in shape. Do not make this aspect into deprivation and reward; that does not go anywhere good. Teach good workout habits young, they will do her the world of good. And again – no crash diets. That will set her on a cycle of restricting and bingeing. Eat real food, not too much, mostly plants.

6. Maintain a polite but firm contact with her agents.

My favorite agents have been the ones I have a good relationship with, and they are the ones I have worked the best with. Agents are people too (?!) – so get to know your daughters. Have meals with them, talk to them, and learn about them. Don’t get stage parent vibes and complain about lost jobs; as a model, you probably book about twenty percent of your options, and even less in the early days, so be patient and pay attention.

7. Look at all the money coming in and out.

Teach your daughter about taxes, expenses and keeping tally of pay stubs. She will hopefully start earning a lot of money fast, and that needs management. Always read agency statements, and make sure she learns this skill too.

8. Realize that nothing is certain in this industry.

Some careers take years to take off, others burn bright then fizzle out, and some are slow and steadily consistent. My career falls into the first and last category. I have learned to believe nothing, hope for nothing, and always be pleasantly surprised. But in the early days my parents and I were promised the sun and nothing really came of it. Manage your expectations, and teach your daughter to do so also.

9. Just be there for her.

This industry can suck. You get rejected a lot, and it is all based on your looks. You want your daughter to feel comfortable enough to come to you if she suffers a particularly bad hit, and to talk about it. Unfortunately she will probably get some mean things said to her face about her appearance. So make sure she talks to you about it, and help her through it.

As a parent you are a support, so that when she is ready, she can take care of herself. I know you want to minimize damage and hurt to your children but at the end of the day, you learn and grow from your past mistakes and hurts. My parents protected me as best they could, and when the time was right, I stepped out on my own. But they were always there for a 3am phone call from a foreign country when I couldn’t sleep, or when my bankcard wasn’t working, or when the anxiety was just too much for me and needed to come home. Modeling is an amazing venture if it works for you, well worth the pain. I have traveled to some incredible places, made great money, and made life long friends. As long as you are always there for your daughter NO MATTER WHAT, without judgment or anger, no matter what teenage angst she throws at you, and unconditionally love her, you will all be fine. That is what being a parent is all about anyway right!

Love,

Bridget