Panofsky when discussing the iconography in The Birth of Venus and the Primavera



All of my feelings.

As an Asian-American woman, I know that before leaving my house every morning, I better make damn sure that my clothes are not too slutty, my makeup not too thick, my voice not too coy, my glance not too seductive, and my gestures not too lewd. I know to keep to myself on crowded sidewalks and to choose a seat on the train far away from unknown men. I know to duck my head and remain meek when catcalls follow me down the street, and to give a quick smile when random men tell me “You’re too pretty for a frown”. I know that this is necessary, even though I am raging with fury inside, so angry that bile fills my mouth and burns the back of my throat. I know this is necessary because should I be assaulted, raped, or murdered, my appearance, presentation, and actions will all be taken as evidence to prove my guilt in my own nightmare. As an Asian-American woman, I feel pressured to be twice, three times more aware of this than my white peers, because my ethnicity already labels me as a whore in Western society. Being an Asian-American woman in a white man’s world means that, by default, I am already asking to be dominated, over-powered, defiled.

To be an “other” in the United States means to live this kind of lifestyle - hyper-cautious, hyper-aware, suspicious, scared. To be an “other” in the US means to swallow your pride, swallow your identity. We hear stories about our female friends being raped and then denied by authorities who don’t care. We read about a murdered boy whose killer was set free by a jury who believes that “black” is reason enough to be shot through the heart. We swallow these stories too, and secretly wait for our turn.

Women, racial and ethnic minorities, gays, transsexuals - we’re told to put our hands over our hearts as we watch the rippling flag and be goddamn grateful to be a fucking American.

The second I get home from work



there’s nothing wrong with bestiality if a candle says it’s okay

(Source: catbushandludicrous)




I think it’s time to kill for our women

Time to heal our women, be real to our women
And if we don’t we’ll have a race of babies
That will hate the ladies, that make the babies
And since a man can’t make one
He has no right to tell a woman when and where to create one

“Rap is just noise”

Look at that terrible rap music, poisoning the minds of our youth. 

Forever reblog this gif set


Always reblog


Advertising is based on one thing: happiness. And do you know what happiness is? Happiness is the smell of a new car. It’s freedom from fear. It’s the billboard on the side of a road that screams with reassurance that whatever you’re doing is okay. You are okay. -- Donald Draper, Mad Men

I’ve put together this collection of recent sexist advertisements from different companies. To be honest, it was difficult to pick the ones I wanted because there were so many of them. It was truly abhorrent. 

Donald Draper explains to us what advertising is. Its a stroking of the ego. Sexism and patriarchy are rampant within society (advertising also touches on things like race, body size, and social class but for the purposes of this post I am focusing on those two), and thus advertising capitalizes on that, makes money on it, and perpetuates it. We’re surrounded by this kind of advertising. We can’t escape it, we’re trapped. 

So when shopping or flipping through a magazine, or even driving down the high way and reading billboards, let’s all remember to put our critical thinking hats on and to identify and call out the sexism. Advertising is a significant contributor to the continued social injustices. But remember: those problems come to an end with us. If we stop responding to these advertisements the way the companies want us to, then some real reform can begin. 

Let’s not talk about representations of women in the media without incorporating representations of women of color. 

“Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier-mâché puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”
Marty McConnell, “Frida Kahlo to Marty McConell” (via horreure)

(Source: katelouisepowell)

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