#spitten image

[doppleganger-rental]

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A post shared by Lucie Frost | Writer | Humor (@luciehfrost)

I had no idea!

[verminjerky]

I posted this on Twitter in March and I thought I’d start off my tumblr with the same in a much more sane format. So, from the top: I've never talked that much about my OCs or their stories. The two who have really developed stories are Llivion and Salaa. Llivion's is almost too long to go into, and it lives rent free in my head, constantly shifting. So let me introduce Lector Salaa Suran, of Clockwork City. Salaa was born and raised in Clockwork City, the son of Clockwork Apostles of rank, themselves. He was Redoran by heritage, as his family name would suggest. He showed an early aptitude for the mechanical, to the point of being a prodigy, to his parents' delight. He also had a head for math and magic, and being a tall boy, did well in athletics and martial training. He didn't apply himself at all in arts or social sciences, but he needed them little. He was largely quiet and introverted. More interested in his own pursuits. However, although polite to his superiors, he could quickly become stubborn and impatient when dealing with others. His frustrations dealing with people, largely caused by his own inflexibility and sense of superiority, only intensified his tendency to be withdrawn. As a young teen, people began to notice something interesting about Salaa. As he grew older, it became more apparent, and by the time he was a young man, there was no missing it. Young sera Salaa Suran was the absolute spitten image of Lord Sotha Sil. At first, this was fun. Just another thing that made Salaa special. But, in time, it began to wear on him. His considerable talents no longer stood on their own, but rather drew comparisons to someone who no mortal could live up to. Peers would ask his help on matters of artificing with comments like, "Well, you're the next best thing to Lord Seht, after all!" Worst of all were the rumors. The boldest went so far as to suggest to his face that his father (whom Salaa also resembled) wasn't his real father. He was even told that he should be proud to be the son of Sotha Sil, the speakers uncaring of what an insult the comment was to both his happily married parents and their Clockwork God. As Salaa rose through the ranks of the Apostles, he withdrew further, burying himself in his work. It was another point of comparison, but at least it was one he didn't have to listen to. As a Lector, a rank he achieved relatively young, he did have students. They comprised most of his social interaction, and he liked it just fine that way. They knew better than to trouble him about anything that might annoy him, and for the most part, he'd learned to temper his impatience and became a good teacher, well-liked by his pupils. In middle age, around the same age Sotha Sil had been at the time of his ascendancy, Salaa was occasionally outright mistaken for the Clockwork God. His habits kept these moments mercifully rare. However, he was unexpectedly called upon for a brief mission to the Mourning Hold. A prisoner needed to be escorted there and a Constable with whom Salaa was acquainted (Drados, it's Drados, of course it's Drados) requested his assistance as the magically powerful interloper in Clockwork City required ironclad magical restraint when removed. An imminent threat to the Clockwork City, the prisoner was to be taken to Mournhold to be dealt with by none other than Almalexia, herself, by request of Lord Seht, who said he'd trust no other far outside his realm to do what must be done. Salaa did as he was asked, of course. He'd never stepped foot outside of the City of Sotha Sil, and found himself overawed by the ancestral land of Morrowind, seeing for the first time the land he'd only ever seen illustrated. Even the business of escorting the prisoner couldn't dampen his wonder. And he got the opportunity he'd hoped to have. He met Lady Ayem, in the flesh. He was immediately convinced she was the most beautiful being who'd ever lived. He was in the grip of a childlike wonder he hadn't had even as a child. Morrowind and its Mother had him enraptured. Almalexia, in turn, spied him and immediately knew she'd found a new toy that she would have for her own. Salaa Suran looked like Seht, thought like Seht, was steeped in Seht. He even smelled of brass and oil. She would pick his brain for all he knew about Clockwork City. And she might do some other things with him, too. In the words of Naryu Virian, "I understand that Almalexia can be a little rough on her toys." It didn't take long to have Salaa alone, and once she did, she barely even had to charm him. He was clay in her hands. He never knew, nor asked, nor even wondered what happened to the prisoner until many years later. When the other Apostles went home, Salaa stayed, at Almalexia's request. She quickly made him a Hand. Her control over her Temple was so tight, there was very little grumbling about the immediate promotion from outside the ranks of the Ordination. Their relationship progressed quickly from one of goddess and supplicant to lovers. They were never, however, equals for a moment. Salaa never exactly agreed to being dominated by his goddess queen in every way, but saw little alterative if he was to have what he wanted most. She used and abused him at her whim, leaving him swinging wildly from the depths of shame and humiliation to the heights of ecstasy. Salaa often found himself on his knees, begging Mother Morrowind for release or relief, whatever device she was using to puppet him in a given moment. One minute he'd wonder how he'd ever lived without her, the next, he'd wonder how much longer he could live like this. Outside of the time he spent alone with Ayem, the formerly cloistered, reclusive Apostle was ill-equipped to navigate the political and violent world of the Ordinators. His orders began simply enough, but over time, they became more and more martial. While he excelled at martial arts, as he had in his youth, using them on real, living people proved catastrophic to the bookish, peaceful mer. He'd seek comfort in his lover and only confidant, even though she was the very one who'd burdened him with the trauma. Almalexia recognized these moments of vulnerability, and at these times more than any other, she would ask him all he knew about the Clockwork City. Its magic, its mechanisms, its people. Salaa, in his innocence, saw such questions as a kindness. A distraction from his pain. However, in time, a few short years, he could take it no longer. He fell to his knees before his queen, his goddess, his lover for the final time and begged her to set him free from this life. He'd seen heresy, and punishment, beyond what he'd once imagined possible. And the Mercy of Morrowind did just that. She relieved Salaa of his vestments and his enthrallment. He felt no pain, he was not broken hearted. Whatever had once enraptured him simply evaporated. She didn't toss him away but rather tossed him into the air to fly on his own wings. Whether this was a final act of kindness and mercy to someone who had worshipped her like few who'd come before, or whether she was simply done with him and gotten what she wanted is impossible to say. Either way, Salaa Suran had no title nor order for the first time in his life. For a time, he wandered Morrowind, untethered, living off the land or making money with his skills when he needed to. At times he felt ashamed and adrift. Other times, he felt as light and free and full of possibility as a dandelion seed on the wind. The people of Morrowind, for their part, took little notice of him. Very few Tribunal worshippers even recognized his resemblance to one of their gods. For the first time ever, Salaa was absolutely and completely unremarkable. Until a chance encounter. The Psijic Order have always maintained a few emissaries in Tamriel, storied mer like Asulo and Lilatha. This was in the days when the Isle of Artaeum was farm from Nirn, perhaps even the Mundus, when such members were critical ties to the world of mortals. This Psijic, whoever it might have been, was the first mer in years to recognize Salaa for who he looked like. Salaa, of course, was staggered to run into a magnificently robed Altmer in Morrowind who saw the resemblance that had so shaped his life. The two struck up a conversation and sat at the inn, ordering coffee after coffee, well into the wee hours, talking about their long lives and many experiences. It wasn't long before the Psijic had revealed their Order, which immediately told Salaa how he'd been recognized. His new friend had done something Salaa, himself, never had - seen Sotha Sil in the flesh. The Psijic, recognizing a brilliant and gifted mage, invited Salaa back to Artaeum. Just to visit, of course. But before the visit was over, he'd been offered a position within the Order. Unlike when he'd joined the Hands of Almalexia, this time, it took Salaa a few days to decide. Another monastic order, another place he'd rarely leave, another anchor. There was no one here he was madly in love with. Nothing here called irresistibly to him. But, the desire for a place to call home, his longing for scholarship, and the beautiful, even more deeply ancestral Summerset isle eventually wound their way into his mind and put down roots. He agreed, and for the third time in his life, wore the vestments of an order. He learned deep, old magics wildly different from what he'd known in Clockwork City or Mournhold. He was soon able to wield arcana as ancient as the stars, themselves. Among the Psijics, he was great again, but so was everyone around him. They all knew his face, but none changed their opinion about him because of it. Sotha Sil was their honored teacher, not their god. Slowly, so slowly he didn't even notice it happening, Artaeum became Salaa Suran's heart and home. He settled into a comfortable life. Only once was his peace interrupted, although briefly. The great powers of Tamriel - all of them - were called together in peace and diplomacy to address an existential daedric threat to Nirn, when one of the Princes of Oblivion bested Seht's own Coldharbour Compact. Which Prince it was is not know to this day, but the Princes who agreed to the Compact found themselves able to keep its benefits while defying its prohibitions. Most of them, of course, immediately took full advantage of this. And a few of them... well. The Psijics were forced to aid in the fight to help ensure the safety of both Nirn and Artaeum. Salaa, of course, joined his Order in this endeavor. And in a stroke of remarkable fortune - or perhaps providence? - Salaa's rare gifts finally found their use. Lord Seht needed to be in two places at once. As noted in Vivec's 36 Sermons, he was entirely capable of this feat. What he could not do, however, was completely hide his immense power from another so powerful as a Daedric Prince. And he needed to be in a second place quietly. The Psijic Ritemaster was able to offer a solution without hesitation, and finally, after centuries, Salaa Suran came face to face with Sotha Sil. "I see your qualifications were not overstated," were Seht's very first words to him, referring to both his visage and his power. But about their resemblance, Seht said no more. Salaa was overwhelmed to finally meet the Clockwork God, perhaps even more than he'd been when he met Almalexia, but this time, he was able to keep his emotions well in hand. Seht quickly devised a plan, and found Salaa more than up to the challenge. A little magic to change his proportions and simulate Sotha Sil's enhancements, and Salaa became indistinguishable from the Mystery of Morrowind. How exactly he carried out his role is unknown. What is known is that he was successful, and lived to tell the tale, although he told very few. Most versions of the story say he stared down one of the darkest Princes and comported himself exactly as Lord Seht would have. The Prince, convinced, did not dare to touch him. Seht rewarded him for his aid, although what he was given was never recorded. The memory of finally meeting the Clockwork God was a happy one. Although Salaa was eventually appointed Relicmaster of the Psijics, for the rest of his days, he used the title Lector. He would meet Sotha Sil one more time. In Salaa's advanced old age, Seht briefly returned to Artaeum. He had need of their magic, the threat which faced Morrowind is well recorded. Sotha Sil was now far more enhanced with clockwork of his own device, and Salaa was centuries old. The two no longer resembled each other. Some longing sparked in Seht's ancient heart, and the two sat and had a long, long conversation. They spoke of everything, from Sotha Sil's posthuman enhancements, to the Ghost Fence, to Salaa's time with Almalexia. Neither held back his secrets, but neither asked too much. For a brief moment, a few hours, they were as friends. Salaa took whatever secrets Seht might have told him to the grave a few short years later, not knowing that he'd met Sotha Sil during his very final visit to the Isle. His passing was peaceful, uneventful, and painless. He slept in his own bed in his one true home. The priesthood of the New Temple say Lector Salaa Suran's spirit can be contacted in the Provisional House, though rarely. He'll sometimes come if someone has a very intriguing question that only he can answer.

[wearetheonesx]

"Yeah, I don't think there is much that will change the person he is" Aside from being in the same home with Owen for too long, which was the only moment she had seen Travis act anything other than respectful and nice. He was a very warm personality, the only one in their family where that came naturally. Her parents were quite distantand business oriented, Owen was a spitten image of their father and Riley? However nice she may be, there was always a certain layer to go through at some point.

Taking another sip of her beer she looked at Caroline, feelings increasing exponentially every single time. She was looking a little too long and awkwardly glanced away when she noticed that Nick noticed- well oops.

Caroline & Riley

[swampgh0stt]

Meet My OCs: Taku

v; Wizarding World/OP crossover

> house: Slytherin > patronus: Ghidorah > Quidditch captain

The bastard son of Stelly & (FtM) Ace. He was not conceived out of love, but he is certainly coveted & adored by Ace. 

Taku gets all the best qualities from both parents, which is hard to say when there are so few to be found in Stelly. He is eccentric and loud, always the center of attention, always the focus in the room. Parties revolve around him, the most popular kid in his class, & a star athlete like Ace. 

He is the spitten image of Ace too, originally born with strawberry blonde hair until he dyes it in his teens. Once he dons black hair, he looks just like Ace, if not a little more pale. 

Taku grew up knowing Sabo & Ace as his parents, and prefers to keep it that way. Ace did his absolute best to ensure his son never found out the truth of who his sire really was, yet Taku still seemed to emulate many of Stelly’s behaviors without the nastiness or conniving that the redhead usually has. He is well-mannered, beloved, and understanding. 

[mxndwitch]

❝ We make damn beautiful babies. ❞

ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴀʙʏ sᴇɴᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴇᴍᴇ!

A huge smile spread across Wanda’s face, as she looked down into the crib and wrapped her arms around Bucky. Their little one was sound asleep, wrapped up in a cozy blanket, looking peaceful and absolutely adorable. A spitten image of Bucky, really, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. “You are absolutely right. Beautiful and perfect. I think that calls for another one down the road, what do you think? Just to demonstrate the point further. The world should see that we have damn good genes.”

                                  @primankapustoty

[ineptbubbles]

Miki went to meet her nephew. This is Trent and he is the spitten image of Paulina.

[datasoong47]

It doesn’t seem to be anything relating to semen. Spitting image does indeed come from an earlier spitten image, but that in turn came from and older “spit and image”. “Spit” by itself had an older meaning of “perfect likeness”, so “spit and image” was a redundant intensification. The origin of that sense of “spit” is obscure, but it doesn’t seem likely to me that it had anything to do with semen (source)

But anyways, going back to the original point, yes, metaphor is inherent to language. Many metaphors are so ingrained that we don’t even think of them as metaphors. We talk about, for example, the temperature rising or falling, even though temperature isn’t a physical entity that can be said to have a literal vertical dimension. We can “spend” or “waste” or “invest” time, despite time not being a physical good. We “look back” at the past and “look forward” to the future, using spatial relations as  a metaphor for temporal relations

And, yes, no one uses “literally” to mean “figuratively”. If you don’t believe that, consider the following exchange

“When he heard that, he exploded!”

“Wow, that must’ve been gorey”

“No, I meant that literally”

Does that response make sense? Of course not. If you wanted to indicate that your use of the word “explode” was figurative, you’d use “figuratively” there

Literally is simply following a similar path that was previously taken by words like “very” (originally meaning “true”, from French vrai) and “really” (originally simply the adverbial form of “real”). There are recorded instances of “literally” being used as an intensifier since at least the 1760s, so it’s over two and half centuries old at this point

Also, it’s questionable whether it ever had an exclusive meaning of “not figurative”. It’s ultimately derived from Latin littera  meaning “letter”, Etymonline says the earliest sense was “late 14c., "taking words in their natural meaning" (originally in reference to Scripture and opposed to mystical or allegorical)” - note that “natural” does not necessarily mean “non-figurative”, but rather, “the sense that makes most sense given the context”. So, it was basically “as is written”, and only later came to develop a stricter meaning of “without metaphor” (as well as other developments such as “literal translation” meaning “word-for-word (or morpheme-for-morpheme) translation”)

pet peeve of mine: when people say that "literally" is it's own antonym now because it can mean "literally" or "figuratively."

If you use "literally" in a figurative manner as an intensifier, the word is not being used to MEAN "figuratively," it's a figurative STATEMENT, the word "literally" does not itself convey the information that the statement is figurative.

"Figuratively" isn't a valid definition of "literally" any more than "figuratively" is a valid definition of any word used in a figurative manner.

What has changed is the usage of "literally," not the definition. I'm aware that all attempts to categorize language are nailing jello to a wall, but listen, if we needed formal recognition in the definition of a word for every figurative statement, the dictionary would just have a little infinity symbol next to every word where the definition would go

[taylortruther]

Lol the Larries did it with Freddie and he’s the spitten image of Louis. Levi can look exactly like his parents and they will still deny it.

apparently he looks just like josh and since josh and mikey look somewhat alike (tall white dark haired dudes), you know exactly what they’re thinking

[totanimarum]

@leroibourbon ♥

the spitten image of louise de lavalliére was walking around the halls of versailles, sometimes people did stop in their tracks to look at her. she was a remarkably beautiful young woman and their daughter. unfortunately, except for the day of her birth, she had never met her mother and did not quite know what she looked like but marie knew she must’ve looked like her, for she got mistaken a lot. and her father, the king of france, she barely knew him either but what she knew was that he was generous as to see that her marriage was quite scandalous five years ago, now that her marriage had ended, the dowager princess of conti walked through the halls, getting familiar with the place she would now call home. entering the salon she looked around into the crowd of nobles playing cards, gossiping and doing god knows what as the king entered the room.

[idiomland]

Hello guys! Our idiom of the day is ”Be the spitting image of somebody”, which means "to look extremely similar to someone". That's what we've found about its origin:

“The germ of the idea behind the phrase has been traced back to 1400 by [Eric] Partridge, who cites the early example "He's...as like these as th' hads't spit him." Similarly, in England and the southern U.S., the expression "he's the very spit of his father" is commonly heard. This may mean "he's as like his father as if he had been spit out of his mouth," but could also be a corruption of "spirit and image." If the last is true, it would explain the use of "and image" in the expression since the middle of the [19th] century. Spittin' image would then be derived from "he's the very spirit and image of his father," that is, the child is identical to his parent in both spirit and looks. It's possible that both sources combined to give us our phrase for "exactly alike," which is also written “spit and image”, “spitting image”, “spitten image”, and “spit n' image”.”

From Robert Hendrickson, The Facts on File Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins.

[weirdfool75]

*All it took was that ONE sentence to suddenly make the TV headed entrepreneur of VoxTek, suddenly SNAP his head in a full 150! his body momentarily giving off a static-like glitching effect! much like the screen upon a full screen television!...did he just...HEAR HIS OWN VOICE speak back to him?...Vox will admit he has been in this business for a LONG time since the day he died in the 1950's...but even THIS could not have given him a visual inkling as to whatever the FUCK he was seeing!...*

["WOAH!! WHAT IN THE UNHOLY FU--[[BZZZZ!!]]--"]

*Was he just...seeing HIMSELF just now?...and not just some cut-N-paste thrown together cardboard SLOG FEST because some FAN wanted to badly to BE him! he was looking directly at a PERFECT...COPY...okay, mayhaps he must have spent WAY too much time with Val that SOME drink or another must be fluctuating his screen board somehow...*

["....OKAAAY--Welp! not the absolute WEIRDEST thing I have ever seen in a while but, hay! its HELL! suppose if ANYTHING is possible, I guess gazing upon a walking talking homunculi of yourself seems to be the norm down here...I gotta stop buying heavy drinks with Val on outings....AHEM!....

-WEEEELL Ain't YOU just a clean spitten image!~...Looook as CHARMED as I am by the otherwise CRYSTAL lookin outlook, VoxTek only has room for--aha!...ONE...head hancho~ Now I get the fans have a tendency to start "dressing" the part--HAY!~ who doesn't!?~...Buuut it KIIINDA boarders beyond creepy...soooooo...care to drop the costume kiddo?? Kinda got a SHOW BIZ to run here, and pal it AIN'T cheep!"]

*That's right, give em that winning smile and that charm-tactic attitude! if by chance this WAS a fan dressed up like him...albeit rather...PERFECTLY...you gotta give the fans what they want, right??*

*It was just another day at V-Tower!...or at least, what Vox assumed was his OWN V-Tower. It had been naught but a few days since the whole fiasco with Adam and his legion of angels and honestly? Vox had never been more thrilled to know that the Radio Demon himself had been PUT in his place!~...not by his OWN hands, sure but STILL bested none the less! and to have it all recorded and READY to be broadcast LIVE?...he had never had a FINER peace of leverage!~*

["OOooOOoo this is gonna be so GOOD!~ As soon as I figure out where he is gone, I'm gonna have one HELL of a surprise waiting for him! I can already PICTURE the headlines when!...wait...WAAAIT."] *He paused, now looking around to see if he had made a correct turn...he was pretty sure the hidden elevator to his main chamber was here...why wouldn't it be?...suppose he COULD travel through the TV screens and just find out...were the walls painted a LITTLE differently or was it just him??...* ["...Uhhhh VELVET??...Did you ask the interior decorating team to re-range the layout of the walls?...VELVET?...Okay where in SATANS name has she gone??..."]

vox cocked a brow. it wasn’t exactly his first time running into a doppleganger now, but technically that time didn’t really count either, did it?

vox grinned.

“you lost there, buddy?”

[ali3npixls]

Aged up new baby Sky and she’s just a spitten image of lily tbh

[eclecticevelyn]

(via Jackson Spitten Image)

[dayglow-company]

Jack let out a sigh. "She became a guildmaster just a few years after Ruric. They got to know each other and than she got...affectionate towards him." He was trying to be delicate. Neither of them wanted to imply anything because she was a good person. She just had problems with personal space.

She had ignored Joseph for a bit while her and Ruric talked, but when she noticed him she gave him a look as if sixing him up. "And...who's your second?" She was cautious about him simply because he seemed familiar. Not because she met him, but something about him had triggered something in her head.

Jack gave a tired smile. "This is Joseph. He's the one we talked about. The...The one that you seemed to only believe existed."

It seemed the others had heard the name and came over to see for themselves.

"Well I'll be. You're the spitten' image that these two knuckle heads described!" The gruff voice belonged to a Gallade. He'd put a hand out to the other with a smile. "Welcome to the meetin'! We got a day or two before we get down to business so I hope we can get ta know ya lad!"

Ruric had summoned Joseph to the guildmaster room and pushed a letter towards him. "Joseph, you'll be joining me and Jack as a representative of the Knotted Roots guild for the Guildmaster Aummit this year."

@dayglow-company

Joseph looked at Ruric and blinked.

"Oohkay." He said with a pause, and then looked at Ruric, a bit confused.

"Why though?" He asked, and to him it was a reasonable question. How was he qualified?

@dayglow-company

[5brightplanets]

Another unmentenable looks like a lot of takes on ‘er all and nothing stolen mum identifiers in patterned ΛV digital thunder heads rolling slap! cut perspective on resourceful semantic get away tars running late to apps spittin talk and fominting spittin images rising like spitten splinters after a prototypical melvillæin sleigh ride. Grateful awareness of the many artists, musicians and technicians who present these sights and sounds. Words by Oscar Hammerstein II and Music by Richard Rodgers. -Jim

[leoradoetsomsresearch-blog]

Op zoek naar een kunstenares

Tijdens dit kwartaal is het de bedoeling om een documentaire van 20/25 minuten te maken over een kunstenaar. (De website vermeld WDKA alumnus of Rotterdamse kunstenaar, maar dat hoeft niet per se).

Mijn eerste ingeving is een feministisch kunstenares, alhoewel ik nog niet bepaald heb wie. De meeste feministische invloeden die ik heb ervaren kwamen uit mijn directe omgeving (vriendinnen) of van het internet. Dat is dus ook waar ik begon met zoeken. 

Een van de eerste feministische kunstenaressen die ik leerde kennen was @oanhdaqueen, een Vietnamese schilderes en online influencer. Haar populariteit lijkt vooral voort te komen uit haar provocerende kunst. De meningen zijn flink verdeeld. Oanh zelf schrijft het volgende: 

“I'm tired of having to explain to people, to my family, my relatives and their friends that nudity is not wrong. The woman's body is art, sex is art and why is it when the women bodies are painted, people put them in art books, showcase them in museums. But when through photography suddenly it's pornography, it's indecency. Why is it art when it is painted by male artists all over the world, and people accept it and call it nude photography when its taken by some famous male photographers. But nowadays, when women finally feel free and comfortable to photograph themselves, be in control of their bodies and their image, they get slut shame, get mistaken for being desperate for attention and have people telling them that they should expect harassment. Why people praise me for painting naked women but shame me for posting revealing photos?”

Haar mening is dus dat ze juist vrouwen in staat stelt en machtiger maakt, hen de kracht geeft om hun eigen seksualiteit uit te oefenen op de wijze die zij willen. Ze wil het vrouwelijke lichaam teruggeven aan de vrouw; zodat die zelf kan bepalen wanneer en hoe ze zichzelf vertoont, niet altijd per se op seksuele wijze. 

Daartegenover staan andere activistes, die juist van mening zijn door mee te doen aan de poses van de seksualiteit zoals we die kennen, we de male gaze beantwoorden. Hierdoor dragen ze juist bij aan het kwalijke, eenzijdige beeld dat zo ontstaat van vrouwen: de dubbele standaard. Enerzijds lief en gewillig zijn, anderzijds zodra je iets te bloot bent, als slet bestempeld worden.

Vervolgens ben ik op zoek gegaan via het internet, door enkele bevriende kunstenaressen die nog studeren te berichten, en het Nederlandse vrouwen kunst kollektief door te spitten. 

In 1981 werd dit collectief opgericht, als tegenhanger van het februari-collectief, dat een kunst collectief was tegen het opkomende fascisme. Het VKK was ook een collectief waar door middel van kunst geprotesteerd werd. Daarnaast wilden de vrouwen ook elkaar steunen en helpen met groeien en ontwikkelen als kunstenaressen. De meest belangrijke onderwerpen waar het VKK over protesteerden waren o.a. racisme, seksisme en de kernwapenwedloop. Nel Waller Zeper, die vooral prenten en illustraties maakt, is een van de kunstenaressen die me het meeste aanspreekt. Ze heeft in Parijs gestudeerd en in de Pyreneeën gewoond, een veel bewogen leven gehad. Daarnaast is ze ook betrokken geweest bij andere activistische kunstgroepen, zoals bijvoorbeeld de Onafhankelijken. 

Gerda Roodenburg Slagter lijkt minder activistisch te zijn in haar werk, waar wel veel vrouwelijke thema’s in terug komen. Haar keramiek bevat gezichten en vormen die soms aan de traditionele zienswijze op de vrouw doen denken, en op andere momenten juist kracht en het onverwachte uitbeelden. Desondanks het niet direct vinden van een geschikte kandidaat was het doorspitten van het VKK toch nuttig, om wat meer te weten te komen over deze solidaire groep vrouwen en de feministische/activistische kunst in Nederland.  

Via het internet vond ik Miriam Westen, die conservator is van hedendaagse kunst. Veel van haar tentoonstellingen gaan over rebellie, feminisme, gender en kunst in relatie tot de maatschappij. Ze sprak me met name aan door de volgende uitspraak; “Ik ben ervan overtuigd dat de verbeeldingskracht van kunstenaars tegelijkertijd politiek en artistiek kan zijn.” 

Als jonge maker heb ik vaak moeite met het in balans brengen van mijn mening en mijn werk, en het lijkt me ontzettend interessant om in dit kwartaal dat te onderzoeken, aan de hand van een kunstenares die dit al heeft ondervonden in haar loopbaan.

Veel kunstenaressen die feministische onderwerpen maken, zullen zichzelf toch niet per se enkel als feminist willen bestempelen. Dat voelt als een hokje. Dat is wellicht ook iets dat ik zal merken. Na mijn contact met Catherine Somzé, aan wie ik vroeg of zij interessante kunstenaressen kende, vond ik Melanie Bonajo en Patricia Kaersenhout. 

Melanie Bonajo heeft vooral thema’s gebonden aan techniek vs intimiteit: wat betekenen onze lichamen en gevoelens in een tijd waar de wereld steeds kouder, technischer en vlakker lijkt te worden? Als het op feminisme aankomt wordt vooral haar werk ‘Furniture Bondage’ aangewezen, een fotoserie waarin ze huishoudelijke objecten aan vrouwen heeft vastgebonden en zo een aparte scene creëert. 

http://www.metropolism.com/nl/features/24203_pee_on_presidents_censored https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melanie_Bonajo

http://visualmelt.com/Melanie-Bonajo-Furniture-Bondage

Na het door haar band uitgebrachte nummer ‘pee on presidents’, waarbij in de clip meer dan 200 foto’s van plassende vrouwen in het openbaar te zien zijn, ervaarde ze YouTube censuur. Naakt is toegestaan, zolang het voor artistieke of educatieve doeleinden is. En toch werd haar video verwijderd. 

Op de website van FRAMERFRAMED staat het volgende vermeld over Patricia Kaersenhout: “Patricia Kaersenhout is een Nederlandse visueel kunstenaar en cultureel activist. Ze studeerde sociale wetenschappen aan Amstelhorn Amsterdam en beeldende kunst aan de Gerrit Rietveld Academie. Haar werk onderzoekt sociale onzichtbaarheid als gevolg van de Afrikaanse Diaspora. Ook richt ze zich op het kolonialisme in relatie tot haar eigen opgroeien binnen een West-Europese cultuur. De rode draad in haar werk is een onderzoek naar de Afrikaanse Diaspora, die ze in verband brengt met de geschiedenis van de slavernij, racisme, feminisme en seksualiteit.” https://www.vpro.nl/speel~RBX_VPRO_9565342~patricia-kaersenhout-over-de-behandeling-van-de-zwarte-vrouw~.html

Sophie Dros kende ik via de documentaire Genderbende, en ik vermoedde vooral dat ik met haar kon praten over het verwerken van activistische onderwerpen in mijn werk. http://www.sophiedros.com/

De schilderijen van Kinke Kooi lijken op octopussen, of vrouwelijke vormen, aparte rondingen, die je toch doen denken aan dingen uit het dagelijks leven. Zoals een vulva of een vrouw die ergens zit. Zelf omschrijft ze haar schilderijen als “dromerig, lichamelijk, ongrijpbaar en vrouwelijk, het vullen van ruimte tussen de dingen en het tekenen van het onzichtbare –zoals aura’s en dampen”.

https://www.welikeart.nl/2015/10/26/kinke-kooi/ http://www.kinkekooi.com/index.php