#you want me to remove all of the women's portraits? but i love women... hashtag feminism

[picory]

misogynistic puzzle

[sergle]

I'm thinking abt that pretty fall leaves embroidery pattern post and about how like... it is categorically a repost, it's a reupload. right? a thing that is generally disliked. but because it's credited, it's genuinely boosting the artist in question. and it could ALWAYS be like this. reposting content could ALWAYS be a symbiotic relationship, but because sourcing back to the original creator of something is so uncommon, it's just easier to ask people not to repost it at all. and people still don't understand the difference. or they'll go to the effort of cropping out usernames/signatures to repost something, which is More Effort than literally crediting the creator of something you liked enough to want to repost. Like. I literally don't actually care if my own shit gets reposted, you have to understand. I just don't want it STOLEN. But "do not repost" is easier to write on my art than "you can repost this, but don't alter the image/remove my signature, don't you dare write 'credit goes to the artist' because that is not credit, please link back to my original post or someplace that you can actually find me. please use an actual link/url instead of writing a non-clickable link of my username, because making it text instead of a clickable link cuts the number of people who will go to the effort of visiting my own page in Half." All those aggregate themed accounts, those fuckin annoying as hell instagrams and facebook groups that are like "body positive art we love wamen 💕 hashtag feminism" and then MASS-STEAL plus sized art created by women, if pages like these that always go and steal my older self-portraits and other works... If they just put a link to my prints of those pieces in the text of those posts, or, fuck, my commission info page? I would literally be living on the moon right now. I would have a house on the moon

[theculturedmarxist]

Bryan Fogel’s “The Dissident” was too hot to handle.

The documentary about the murder of Jamal Khashoggi, the journalist and political activist who was allegedly killed in 2018 on the orders of the Saudi Royal Family, was one of the hottest films at last year’s Sundance. It had glowing reviews, a ripped from the headlines subject, and a big-name director in Fogel, fresh off the Oscar-winning “Icarus,” a penetrating look at Russian doping that got the country banned from the Olympics.

And yet, Netflix, which had previously released “Icarus,” and other streaming services such as Apple and Amazon steered clear of “The Dissident.” Without any interested buyers, the film languished until last fall. That’s when Briarcliff Entertainment, an obscure distributor run by former Open Road CEO Tom Ortenberg, announced it would release the movie on-demand.

Fogel thinks the subject matter was too explosive for bigger companies, which have financial ties to Saudi Arabia or are looking to access the country’s massive population of well-to-do consumers. Using interviews with Khashoggi’s fiancee Hatice Cengiz, as well as friends and fellow activists, Fogel creates a damning portrait of Crown Prince Mohammed Bin Salman’s apparent involvement in brutally silencing the writer and thinker and the country’s crackdown on free speech. Thanks to previously unreleased audio recordings, “The Dissident” draws a direct line between Khashoggi’s assassination at the Saudi embassy in Turkey and the Saudi government’s anger over his outspoken criticism of the country’s human rights abuses and mismanagement.

“The Dissident” is currently available on-demand, but its rather muted release isn’t the way Fogel had dreamed of provoking a larger conversation around Khashoggi’s murder. He spoke to Variety about the difficulty of making “The Dissident” and then getting it seen and why he thinks his new movie had the major streamers running scared.

Why did you want to make “The Dissident”?

After the success of “Icarus,” I felt a great burden and social responsibility to make a worthy follow-up. I was looking for a story regarding human rights, regarding freedom of speech, freedom of press, journalism. I also wanted a story that had real world implications that could create real world change through social action or political action.

As the investigation into the murder of Jamal unfolded, my ears perked up and I immediately started reading more about this man. I hadn’t heard of him, but I found out how trusted and regarded he was as a voice on the Middle East. He was also being presented in many media circles as a terrorist sympathizer or member of the Muslim Brotherhood or a friend of Bin Laden. This was not true. He was a moderate, who was fighting for free speech for his country and believed women should have rights. He believed Mohammed Bin Salman’s policies were putting the country on the wrong direction.

Was it difficult to get his friends and fiancee and family to speak to you?

It was very very difficult. This is where the accolades and recognition of “Icarus” and the Academy Award really changed the conversation. In those weeks following his death every journalist was after Hatice. As I approached her and other people, they were able to see my prior work. Hatice invited me about a month after his murder to come and meet with her in Istanbul. I didn’t bring a film crew. I spent the next five weeks there just building trust. It was a harrowing time in her life and I just kept explaining that I was not there for a day or a week or a month. I told her: if we do this, we’re going to go on this journey together. I promised that if she let me into her life, I was going to protect Jamal.

At the Sundance premiere, you challenged distributors to “…not be fearful and give this the global release that this deserves.” How did that turn out?

[Netflix CEO] Reed Hastings was there that day and so was Hillary Clinton. We had a standing ovation. People were wiping tears from their eyes as Hatice took the stage. It was the same scene at each one of our screenings. We were blessed with incredible reviews from all of the trades. In any normal circumstance, you’d think of course this film is going to be acquired and distributed. And yet not only was it not acquired and distributed, there was universal silence. Not a single offer. Not for one dollar or not 12 million dollars, which was what was paid for another documentary title at the festival. Nothing. It was literally as if nobody knew me. It was that startling and that shocking.

Six months later Tom Ortenberg and Briarcliff Entertainment stepped forward and said, hey we want to distribute this film. That’s wonderful. People will be able to rent this film on-demand. But what I wanted was for this film to be streaming into 200 million households around the world. I wanted people to have easy access to it. Instead we pieced together global distribution here and there.

Will this have a chilling effect on movies that want to tackle these kinds of controversial subjects?

This is a depressing and eye-opening moment that any filmmaker that wishes to tell a story like this needs to pay attention to. These global media conglomerates are aiding and abetting and silencing films that take on subject matter like this despite the fact their audiences want content like this. I was told that “Icarus” has had somewhere in the neighborhood of 700 million views. I don’t know if that’s accurate, but I know it was substantial. The decision not to acquire “The Dissident” had nothing to do with its critical reviews, had nothing to do with a global audience’s appetite to watch a docu-thriller, but had everything to do with business interests and politics and, who knows, perhaps pressure from the Saudi government. Netflix did remove Hasan Minhaj’s episode of “Patriot Act” [at the Saudi government’s request] in 2019 and defended that decision by saying, “we’re not a truth to power company. We’re an entertainment company.” It has been a struggle to get this film into the world and to shine a light on the human rights abuses that are happening in that kingdom. These companies, that have chosen not to distribute this film, in my opinion, are complicit.

Have you had conversations with these companies about why they didn’t want to release “The Dissident”? If so what has been their response?

It has been to not respond.

Is this about money? Are they wary of angering the Saudi Royal Family because they have money from Saudi Arabia or want to access their market?

My guess is both. Decisions are being made that it’s better to keep our doors open to Saudi business and Saudi money than it is to do anything to anger the kingdom. Netflix released a statement regarding Black Lives Matter that is in direct contrast to their statement regarding Hasan Minahaj. One stands behind truth to power and the other says we’re not a truth to power company, so it appears they are a truth to power company when it is convenient. But when their business doesn’t align with that or it might impact their subscriber growth, they’re not. The same can be said for all the streaming companies. In the film, there’s Jeff Bezos on the stage with Hatice. Jamal worked for Jeff Bezos [at the Washington Post, which Bezos owns]. So the same can be said of Amazon. I don’t want to point a finger at anyone because it’s all of them. This is a situation where business, subscriber growth, investment was more important than human rights. There’s got to be greater accountability. Not just on a business level, but on a political level. Trump vetoed the desire of both the House and the Senate to hold Saudi Arabia accountable for this crime. He continued to sell them weapons. He’s trying to get the Justice Department to grant Mohammed Bin Salman immunity from prosecution.

Would you still work for Netflix or the other streamers who declined to release “The Dissident”?

Listen, this is my career. This is my work. I’m sure that I will have other projects that might not take on subject matter like this and are not at odds with their business interests. When those projects come along, I will be glad to work with any of these companies. Look, I love Netflix. I really, really do. I’m so grateful to them because without Netflix, “Icarus” would not have become what it became. I’m not insulted by this. I’m not personally offended. I don’t view anything that is happening as personal. I just view it as business. I can understand it on a business level. I don’t agree with it, but I get it. I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.

What message do you want viewers will take away from the film?

There’s a hashtag #JusticeForJamal and the question has to become what does justice mean? We know that Mohammed Bin Salman will not stand trial for this murder. We know that the henchmen he sent are unlikely to truly stand trial. We have to look to the future. So what I hope people will take from the film is knowledge, because knowledge is power. Just like “Icarus” or “Blackfish” or “The Cove,” I hope this film has the ability to change hearts and minds. As more and more people come to “The Dissident,” I hope there’s a call to action. I hope that takes place on social media or through writing letters to congressmen or senators. The first thing I hope is people will spread the word. The second thing is I hope they will use the power of free speech that we have in this country and are so blessed to have to change the narrative. The Arab Spring happened because of Twitter, the Black Lives Matter and #MeToo movements took hold because of social media. We’ve seen that through combined action, change can come.

Disclosure: SRMG, a Saudi publishing and media company which is publicly traded, remains a minority investor in PMC, Variety’s parent company.

[biofunmy]

The Sudanese Graffiti Artist Assil Diab Is Bringing #BlueForSudan To The Streets

Andrew Renneisen for BuzzFeed News

KHARTOUM, Sudan — Peering out of a tinted window from the backseat of the car as it crawled down an empty side street, the young graffiti artist’s eyes darted back and forth. She had to be sure the authorities weren’t already following her, that she would have enough time to jump out and paint the wall she’d chosen, and be back in the car before anyone alerted the armed soldiers stationed on every other corner. It’s a high-wire act.

But Assil Diab isn’t easily deterred. The 30-year-old street artist has a message she wants to get out. Diab’s graffiti, along with the work of several other local artists, has been screaming from walls and telephone poles all over the Sudanese capital of Khartoum for months now, ever since demonstrators staged a sit-in demanding civilian rule after the military ousted former president Omar al-Bashir.

When Diab took a phone call from a friend in the US, she reassured her that, despite the state’s violent crackdown on protests, she wasn’t scared. “I know everyone’s concerned, but it just got to the point where I decided I’m going to do what I came here to do,” Diab said after she hung up.

After all, she had a wall to paint.

When the protests began in April, Diab mostly painted portraits of people who had been killed by state security forces in the protests leading up to Bashir’s removal. Now, she is covering the city in blue, the color that has come to symbolize the Sudanese uprising and has been popularized by the #BlueForSudan hashtag, which has gone viral around the world. But in Sudan, repeated internet shut downs over the last month have left most people with no idea of its meaning. Diab has resolved to change that, one wall at a time.

“They don’t know what’s happening, and I’m not connected to the internet [when I’m here],” said Diab, who grew up in Khartoum but travels back and forth between the capital and her home in Doha, Qatar. “But that’s why I need to paint.”

Diab is part of a group of artists behind the creative renaissance that’s emerged in Sudan since the sit-in began. The peaceful demonstration became known for the vibrant street art that took over walls and overpasses, and old revolutionary songs and poems sung by protesters of all ages.

But that ended suddenly on June 3 when the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), Sudan’s paramilitary troops, killed more than 100 people and injured at least 600 more. The government ordered an internet shutdown the same day. At least 40 dead bodies were recovered from the Nile River, and Sudanese medical staff have reported that dozens of men, women, and children were raped, all in a single week. The Transitional Military Council, established to lead the country during its three-year period between Bashir’s rule and the country’s next elections, has since admitted that it had ordered troops to break up the protest, which dealt a serious blow to the pro-democracy movement’s momentum. The country’s military leadership and the civilian opposition coalition agreed to a power-sharing deal on Friday, after months of negotiation, but some celebrating in the streets remain wary after the still recent violence.

Andrew Renneisen for BuzzFeed News

Faces of those killed in anti-government protests in Khartoum.

Online, the Sudanese diaspora mobilized to bring the rest of the world’s attention to the uprising taking place at home, especially after 26-year-old Mohamed Hashim Mattar, a British Sudanese engineer, was killed during the violent breakup of the sit-in. Mattar’s social media profile photo had been a solid shade of deep turquoise blue when he died, so to honor his life — and the lives of other people killed during the uprising — his friends changed their profile photos blue, too, and encouraged the rest of the world to do the same.

Within a few days, celebrities like Rihanna, Cardi B, Bas, and Sophia Bush followed suit. People outside the country changed their social feeds to a massive sea of blue, accompanied by the hashtags #BlueForMattar and #BlueForSudan, though there has been criticism of people exploiting the hashtag in order to increase their follower count.

Diab said she had met Mattar briefly at the airport in Khartoum after realizing they’d been on the same flight from Doha. She remembered him being so excited to join the sit-in that he went straight there after landing.

As a Sudanese diasporan who has the privilege of traveling between Khartoum and Doha with relative ease, Diab feels obliged to help bridge the gaps she’s seen inside and outside Sudan: both between Sudanese people and the rest of the world, and between online and offline activism. “It’s a revolution, and we all need to stay connected,” she said. “So we took the idea of painting the walls blue from the internet, and are bringing it into the real world.”

Her project adds another phase to the typical real-life-to-hashtag cycle: Mattar’s death inspired the viral #BlueForSudan, and now the massive online movement — which was created both to honor his life and to draw the world’s attention to the anti-government protests — is being explained to the very people it is meant to support.

Andrew Renneisen for BuzzFeed News

A portrait of Mohamed Hashim Mattar by Assil Diab. Mattar was killed during anti-government protests.

After Diab inspected the wall to make sure the surface was smooth and wouldn’t cause the paint to peel, the driver popped the trunk, revealing buckets of blue paint and some brushes. Using the car’s headlights to guide them, they dipped the roller brushes in paint and started covering the wall. A few of the kids joined in, offering to fill in the cracks with smaller brushes. As she painted, Diab glanced behind her at the sound of every sputtering tuk-tuk motor. Her art and activism have put her in danger with the RSF — which grew out of the Janjaweed militias accused of committing war crimes in Darfur — before, and she wanted to avoid them at all costs.

“They came to my house before, about 10 days ago,” she said with a laugh common to activists who’ve been repeatedly harassed by the authorities.

“They were banging on the door and ringing the doorbell at the same time, which is freaky, you know?” she said. “When I looked out, they had their guns aimed at the door and they were using terror tactics to intimidate me.”

Diab said that for her and the small group she works with, “safety is number one, especially now. If we’re out on a main street, it’s a bit hard for me to feel comfortable painting. My back is facing everything else, and these guys…” she said, trailing off.

“All they have to do is raise their gun and shoot you. They’re not gonna ask who I am, or why I’m doing all of this.”

Tamerra Griffin / BuzzFeed News

It meant that Diab couldn’t just stroll up to any random wall and start painting — she had to create a special process to ensure everyone’s safety.

Before painting martyrs’ portraits, either Diab or someone working with her reaches out to the family for permission. But if they’re painting a #BlueForSudan wall, she said, someone from her team “drives to the area an hour earlier and makes sure we have people from the community standing around, pretending to drink coffee, just looking out.” Everyone involved shares their phone numbers, so that if anyone sees the RSF approach, they can alert each other.

But painting the sides of houses, abandoned walls, and telephone poles in Mattar’s blue is only part of the mission. For Diab, the project means nothing if the communities don’t understand its significance, or how much those outside the country are supporting them. That’s why she and her small team of volunteers have also been talking to those who live in the areas they paint, telling them about the meaning of the particular shade (which Diab had custom-made by a painter in Khartoum to make sure it matched the blue that went viral) and what the hashtag means.

“As soon as you start explaining it … people say things like, ‘Oh, my cousin has some internet. Maybe I should go there and check out this hashtag,’” Diab said. “Someone [from an older generation] actually wrote it down yesterday.”

The first wall of the night belonged to the home of Ha’zaa Hassan, who was 18 years old when he was killed on June 3. She had previously painted Hassan’s portrait, and as soon as his mother, Ahlam, saw her approach, she quickly folded her into a tight hug. The greeting drew a small crowd of children and teens hanging out nearby. Then, with the urgency and precision of a surgeon performing an emergency procedure, Diab got to work.

Andrew Renneisen for BuzzFeed News

A portrait of Ha’zaa Hassan by Diab.

Diab’s first foray into graffiti art could not have been more different. In 2011, she was on a photography internship in Brooklyn when she saw graffiti for the first time, and quickly fell in love with it. When she returned to Doha, she took a position assisting eL Seed, a famous Tunisian graffiti artist.

“I picked up the know-how of spray painting really quickly,” she said, “to the point where [eL Seed] was like, ‘You know, you’re going somewhere with this.’ He really pushed me into it.”

When she wasn’t working on the project with him, Diab studied YouTube videos to learn new graffiti styles. “Now I know how to use spray paint better than I do a brush,” she said.

In 2013, she started a new job as a creative designer at Al Jazeera, but decided to take a risk and quit after eight months to pursue graffiti full-time. She hasn’t looked back since.

But the joy of painting at home in Khartoum and making a living doing what she’s most passionate about still isn’t enough to protect Diab from the stereotypes faced by women who defy society’s expectations of them.

“Yesterday when we were painting, I could hear the kids nearby saying, ‘Look at how she’s dressed,’” said Diab, who was wearing a pair of fitted sweatpants and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. “That’s always a comment I hear. I’m not a hijabi, my hair is out, I’m wearing jeans.” Sometimes, she said, the kids will call her a prostitute, because they typically see her walking around at night.

And while those comments sting, especially because they come from children — “Maybe their dad is saying that about their sisters,” she wondered — Diab sees them as an opportunity to show that women are more than the clothes they wear. It doesn’t stop her from inviting those same kids to help her paint, either.

“I want people to get used to this, because it’s not [about] how I’m dressed, right? It’s what I’m doing, and if people could just focus on what I’m trying to do here, I can be put into use.”

Other times, the sexism is more subtle and comes from within the activist community. Diab recalled a time when a man asked her if he could join her crew and help spread her graffiti around Khartoum. When she brought him on, she emphasized the importance of following through on the tasks he was given, because they all depended on each other and one person’s mistake could compromise everyone’s safety.

But the new volunteer was unreliable, regularly missing phone calls and showing up late to meetings. Assil was frustrated. “If someone’s not doing what they should be doing and we all get in trouble, you basically just fucked us all up,” she said.

When she confronted him about it, though, he pushed back, saying that what they were doing wasn’t a business and that he was only there to support her, so how could she be so demanding?

“I was like, ‘This is not about me. This is about Sudan. And you came asking me to join,’” she remembered telling the man.

But it was more than that.

“I felt, deep down inside, that he had an issue with a woman telling him what to do,” she said. “I mean, if you’re a revolutionary, and you’re going out in the street protesting against the government who thinks the same way you’re thinking right now? That makes you a hypocrite, because what is it that you want to change about Sudan if you don’t want that change to be a woman also having equal rights as you?”

Andrew Renneisen for BuzzFeed News

Diab at her family’s home in Khartoum.

Within 15 minutes, Diab has finished the blue wall near Hazzah’s house. She’d spray-painted “#BlueForSudan” in black-and-white letters that gave the text a three-dimensional effect and framed it with a prayer to Hazzah in Arabic, which gained a huge round of applause from the kids who’d gathered to watch her. (They didn’t quite understand the English hashtag, until she broke it down for them in Arabic.) The final touches to her #BlueForSudan wall were splatters of red paint around the lettering, to symbolize the blood of those who were killed on June 3.

Some of the kids rushed to bring cold bottles of water to Diab and her friends before they left. She had returned the paint buckets to the trunk just as quickly as she’d brought them out, and was already scheming with her team about the next wall to paint.

And then, they were off into the night.

Sahred From Source link World News

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