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amazon_syren Jun. 11th, 2007 12:18 am)
amazon_syren Jun. 11th, 2007 12:18 am)Okay.
So I find myself rambling (as per usual).
I've agreed to take part in a local artist's collection of photographs of Goths. It sounds like a lot of fun, and it gives me an excuse to get out all my pretty things for once (a day-job, such as it is, a seemingly perpetual inability to stay up late - it's 12:30 now and that qualifies as 'late' for me, these days - and a preference for using my spare time to write stuff rather than decide how to do my makeup today have all resulted in my general lack of Regalia. Part of me goes 'meh', and part of me misses it like mad and wants to be a wild, unseelie-lookin thing again).
But, of course, this has got me to thinking (as I go through my drawers of bodices and scarves and shawls, and my piles of Stuff That Needs to be Altered so that I Can Wear It Again/At-All, and my bags of veils and gloves-made-from-nylons and what-not) about my gothnicity[1] and the place in my head that's been leading me to this (sub-)culture since I was, like, seven and going "Vampires drink blood,just like me! I like Egyptian mythology[3]! I want to know more!"
When I started university, I spent the first two weeks (at least) thinking that I'd miraculously found myself an entire university program full of goths, many of whom hadn't discovered the clothing-and-eyeliner part of the subculture.
This was before I started self-identifying as a Spooky Gothic Person, I feel I should point out. (That didn't happen until the following March. ;-)
Eventually it did sink in that, Yes, Morticia, there are interesting, intelligent, creative people in this world who <*gasp*> do not gravitate towards black, velvet, facial art, and Big Stompy Boots[4].
Anyway.
When I met up with this artist fellow, I brought up the following:
Just west of Cairo, in the desert, there are a group of Bedouins who are no-longer all that nomadic (see Leila Abu-Lughod's Writing Women's Worlds for the whole story, as it's been a good three+ years since I read her work, and I'm going on faulty memory here). The married women wear long belts wrapped around their waists. Once you're done puberty, it's customary and encouraged that you start wearing at least some sort of scarf tied around your waist.
These Bedouin women say that Real Bedouin Women wear these belts. The belt, itself, is a visible sign of the woman's inherent Bedouin-ness, if you will.
In the great (or not so great) debate about "What is Goth", and which seems to boil down to the question of "Is Goth a fashion thing or a soul thing" (or however you want to phrase it), I seem to land roughly the way these Bedouin women do.
Goth is a 'soul thing' to me. It's a head/heart/soul-space that gravitates towards "dark"[5] imagery and themes, which gravitates towards the fantastical, the creepy, the fringe-stuff and the edges of things[6].
However all the stuff we create -- the minor-key music, the jewellery made from tiny animal bones, the DIY clothes that come from equal parts hardware store and second-hand table-linens department, the mixed media art full of disembodied doll heads, computer aprts, dried flower petals, shed snake skins and crow feathers, the way we draw - temporarily or permanently - on/in our own skin -- is (of course) all born out of that soul-space.
When I can ask my husband what he's wearing to the [insert band here] concert, and the answer comes back "black", and I understand why that's all he needs to say, that suggests pretty damn strongly that "black" has a pervasive sub-cultural meaning that goes beyond a colour-description.
I have walked into the OPL or through the Redeau Center and gotten nods of recognition from people who don't know me at all - because of my eyeliner or my lipstick. Like the Bedouin belts, the outwardly visible manifestations of our Goth-ness are... well, just that. When we see each other manifesting our inner landscape in this way, we can recognize each other - "Yeah, you get it. Yeah, you're one of mine"[7].
Anyway.
This huge, long post got generated because I was thinking about this stuff, but also because I felt a need to write down (and share - aren't you all so lucky) the happy place in my head and what it looks like.
Behold:
Imagine yourself in a room – It’s big enough to hold half a dozen people, maybe a few more, comfortably lounging on couches (velvet couches – that’s important – black edged in deepest red). Picture the dark wooden bookshelves that line the walls, filled with leather-bound editions of Poe, Yeats, Bronte, and the rest. There are, also, books on Erishkegal and Inanna, Siva, Kali, Isis and Osiris, Persephone, books of the dead, stories that tell of the beginning of time and how the world was made. There are paintings, tapestries too, in this room. Dark tones of red-brown, earth-black, the ivory of old bones, which give these same stories new flesh.
There are candles here. Their soft glow lights the room just enough that we can see each other, just enough to make the shadows dance on the walls. There is a table between us all – silver plates heaped with quartered pomegranates, persimmons, nectarines, wild berries. Fragrant bread, soft, white cheeses wait on slabs of walnut, purple heart, curly maple. A carved wooden bowl overflows with cherries, dark-hearted. There are decanters of wine – moon white, blood red – here. A dish of honey, hot tea spiced with cinnamon and cloves. Delicate, curving cups of white bone china, painted with sharp, black lines, edged in silver, long stemmed glasses, too, like tulips. No plates, for we eat with our fingers, and we feed each other. One hand reaches out – perhaps the nails are long, or not, perhaps they are painted (onyx and plum) or not – plucks a piece of dripping fruit from one of the laden plates, offer it to someone else, someone with wine-red lips (stained with wine or lipstick or pomegranate juice).
Some of us are sitting up, arms flung casually over the backs of settees, or around each other, some of us recline, our heads resting in each others’ laps. There is a lot of silk here, a lot of velvet (a lot of black, too – together we’re a well of soft, warm darkness). Silver rings, polished jewels (onyx, garnet, ruby, pearl, lapis lazuli, cheroite, black star diopsis, hematite, black opal, moonstone, jet), occasional instances of leather and steel, bracelets and pendants that gleam in the candle light. Magpies decked in our finery, crowned with fallen feathers.
There’s a hint of the otherworld about us – touched, perhaps – a wildness to our smiles, to our freedom. We can say anything here, and know that it will stay here (safe, believed, understood). The drone and pulse of music underlies the conversation, a foundation of sound upon-which we build temples of spoken thoughts, shared ideas. Eyes sparkle with mirth, gleam with cleverness, glow with intimate warmth. We laugh together, sharing secret jokes, we sigh together, sharing secret dreams. Somewhere there are windows – arched and etched, framed in ivy and climbing roses, curtained with heavy velvet – you might see stars beyond the glass, or the moon slowly sinking as the night progresses. We don’t care. We’ll watch the sun come up together, by the light of guttering candles, because we’ll still be talking, still be building our castles out of words, still going “Yes! Yes, you get it!”, still understanding each other, still home.
***
So, there it is. My ramblings about Goth and Gothic Stuff.
Hope you had fun. :-)
- TTFN,
- The Amazon (who now has to clear all the clothing off the bed).
[1] What did I tell you? Pretentious. I know. This, in particular, is an incredibly pretentious term[2]. Please just forgive me for it and move on? :-)
[2] Given the subject matter, though, are you really all that surprised? ;-)
[3] Reason #4, 287, 392 Why My Dad Is Cool: He read us mythology (Greek and Egyptian) as bedtime stories. For all that they were rather heavily edited, I still think this is awesome. :-D
[4] Although, to my shame, this took a good year and a half. I did smarten up eventually though. :-)
[5] Which is what, exactly?
[6] Liminality! Whee! :-D
[7] The first time I saw Ms qSkud (I think that's what she goes by here), I was on the bus and she was a seat or two away from me. I had never seen her before, but the intense red of her lips, the subtle but noticeable way she lined her eyes, the fact that she was wearing that kind of a black, brimmed hat, all suggested that she had something inside in common with me.
So I smiled at her.
A few weeks later, she turned up at one of the gothic picnics.
Fancy that. :-)
So I find myself rambling (as per usual).
I've agreed to take part in a local artist's collection of photographs of Goths. It sounds like a lot of fun, and it gives me an excuse to get out all my pretty things for once (a day-job, such as it is, a seemingly perpetual inability to stay up late - it's 12:30 now and that qualifies as 'late' for me, these days - and a preference for using my spare time to write stuff rather than decide how to do my makeup today have all resulted in my general lack of Regalia. Part of me goes 'meh', and part of me misses it like mad and wants to be a wild, unseelie-lookin thing again).
But, of course, this has got me to thinking (as I go through my drawers of bodices and scarves and shawls, and my piles of Stuff That Needs to be Altered so that I Can Wear It Again/At-All, and my bags of veils and gloves-made-from-nylons and what-not) about my gothnicity[1] and the place in my head that's been leading me to this (sub-)culture since I was, like, seven and going "Vampires drink blood,
When I started university, I spent the first two weeks (at least) thinking that I'd miraculously found myself an entire university program full of goths, many of whom hadn't discovered the clothing-and-eyeliner part of the subculture.
This was before I started self-identifying as a Spooky Gothic Person, I feel I should point out. (That didn't happen until the following March. ;-)
Eventually it did sink in that, Yes, Morticia, there are interesting, intelligent, creative people in this world who <*gasp*> do not gravitate towards black, velvet, facial art, and Big Stompy Boots[4].
Anyway.
When I met up with this artist fellow, I brought up the following:
Just west of Cairo, in the desert, there are a group of Bedouins who are no-longer all that nomadic (see Leila Abu-Lughod's Writing Women's Worlds for the whole story, as it's been a good three+ years since I read her work, and I'm going on faulty memory here). The married women wear long belts wrapped around their waists. Once you're done puberty, it's customary and encouraged that you start wearing at least some sort of scarf tied around your waist.
These Bedouin women say that Real Bedouin Women wear these belts. The belt, itself, is a visible sign of the woman's inherent Bedouin-ness, if you will.
In the great (or not so great) debate about "What is Goth", and which seems to boil down to the question of "Is Goth a fashion thing or a soul thing" (or however you want to phrase it), I seem to land roughly the way these Bedouin women do.
Goth is a 'soul thing' to me. It's a head/heart/soul-space that gravitates towards "dark"[5] imagery and themes, which gravitates towards the fantastical, the creepy, the fringe-stuff and the edges of things[6].
However all the stuff we create -- the minor-key music, the jewellery made from tiny animal bones, the DIY clothes that come from equal parts hardware store and second-hand table-linens department, the mixed media art full of disembodied doll heads, computer aprts, dried flower petals, shed snake skins and crow feathers, the way we draw - temporarily or permanently - on/in our own skin -- is (of course) all born out of that soul-space.
When I can ask my husband what he's wearing to the [insert band here] concert, and the answer comes back "black", and I understand why that's all he needs to say, that suggests pretty damn strongly that "black" has a pervasive sub-cultural meaning that goes beyond a colour-description.
I have walked into the OPL or through the Redeau Center and gotten nods of recognition from people who don't know me at all - because of my eyeliner or my lipstick. Like the Bedouin belts, the outwardly visible manifestations of our Goth-ness are... well, just that. When we see each other manifesting our inner landscape in this way, we can recognize each other - "Yeah, you get it. Yeah, you're one of mine"[7].
Anyway.
This huge, long post got generated because I was thinking about this stuff, but also because I felt a need to write down (and share - aren't you all so lucky) the happy place in my head and what it looks like.
Behold:
Imagine yourself in a room – It’s big enough to hold half a dozen people, maybe a few more, comfortably lounging on couches (velvet couches – that’s important – black edged in deepest red). Picture the dark wooden bookshelves that line the walls, filled with leather-bound editions of Poe, Yeats, Bronte, and the rest. There are, also, books on Erishkegal and Inanna, Siva, Kali, Isis and Osiris, Persephone, books of the dead, stories that tell of the beginning of time and how the world was made. There are paintings, tapestries too, in this room. Dark tones of red-brown, earth-black, the ivory of old bones, which give these same stories new flesh.
There are candles here. Their soft glow lights the room just enough that we can see each other, just enough to make the shadows dance on the walls. There is a table between us all – silver plates heaped with quartered pomegranates, persimmons, nectarines, wild berries. Fragrant bread, soft, white cheeses wait on slabs of walnut, purple heart, curly maple. A carved wooden bowl overflows with cherries, dark-hearted. There are decanters of wine – moon white, blood red – here. A dish of honey, hot tea spiced with cinnamon and cloves. Delicate, curving cups of white bone china, painted with sharp, black lines, edged in silver, long stemmed glasses, too, like tulips. No plates, for we eat with our fingers, and we feed each other. One hand reaches out – perhaps the nails are long, or not, perhaps they are painted (onyx and plum) or not – plucks a piece of dripping fruit from one of the laden plates, offer it to someone else, someone with wine-red lips (stained with wine or lipstick or pomegranate juice).
Some of us are sitting up, arms flung casually over the backs of settees, or around each other, some of us recline, our heads resting in each others’ laps. There is a lot of silk here, a lot of velvet (a lot of black, too – together we’re a well of soft, warm darkness). Silver rings, polished jewels (onyx, garnet, ruby, pearl, lapis lazuli, cheroite, black star diopsis, hematite, black opal, moonstone, jet), occasional instances of leather and steel, bracelets and pendants that gleam in the candle light. Magpies decked in our finery, crowned with fallen feathers.
There’s a hint of the otherworld about us – touched, perhaps – a wildness to our smiles, to our freedom. We can say anything here, and know that it will stay here (safe, believed, understood). The drone and pulse of music underlies the conversation, a foundation of sound upon-which we build temples of spoken thoughts, shared ideas. Eyes sparkle with mirth, gleam with cleverness, glow with intimate warmth. We laugh together, sharing secret jokes, we sigh together, sharing secret dreams. Somewhere there are windows – arched and etched, framed in ivy and climbing roses, curtained with heavy velvet – you might see stars beyond the glass, or the moon slowly sinking as the night progresses. We don’t care. We’ll watch the sun come up together, by the light of guttering candles, because we’ll still be talking, still be building our castles out of words, still going “Yes! Yes, you get it!”, still understanding each other, still home.
***
So, there it is. My ramblings about Goth and Gothic Stuff.
Hope you had fun. :-)
- TTFN,
- The Amazon (who now has to clear all the clothing off the bed).
[1] What did I tell you? Pretentious. I know. This, in particular, is an incredibly pretentious term[2]. Please just forgive me for it and move on? :-)
[2] Given the subject matter, though, are you really all that surprised? ;-)
[3] Reason #4, 287, 392 Why My Dad Is Cool: He read us mythology (Greek and Egyptian) as bedtime stories. For all that they were rather heavily edited, I still think this is awesome. :-D
[4] Although, to my shame, this took a good year and a half. I did smarten up eventually though. :-)
[5] Which is what, exactly?
[6] Liminality! Whee! :-D
[7] The first time I saw Ms qSkud (I think that's what she goes by here), I was on the bus and she was a seat or two away from me. I had never seen her before, but the intense red of her lips, the subtle but noticeable way she lined her eyes, the fact that she was wearing that kind of a black, brimmed hat, all suggested that she had something inside in common with me.
So I smiled at her.
A few weeks later, she turned up at one of the gothic picnics.
Fancy that. :-)
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