While it’s my sincere hope that the wondrous Coilhouse Gushfest: Getting to Know You continues unabated, I can’t keep sitting on my hands with this one. Grace Jones has just released a new video for “Corporate Cannibal”, the first single off her forthcoming album, Hurricane (which features collaboration with Tricky, Brian Eno, and others). May Day is more heart-stoppingly badass than ever before:
Rawr. As previously mentioned on CH, Ms. Jones is my choice for It Girl of the 80s. Hell, let’s make her It Girl for ’08, as well. She’s sixty, she’s sexy, she’s scary as hell, and we should all bow before her fabulousness.
“Blixa sighed and rolled sideways, his arm reaching unconsciously into the space where Nick should have been. The absence of an expected touch was enough to pull him out of sleep, and he blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room. The faint orange glow from the streetlamps outside allowed him to pick out Nick’s silhouette against the window. He was looking upwards, naked, framed by the open curtains.”
Yes, Virginia. There is such a thing as Nick Cave/Blixa Bargeld slash. Of course! So what is that makes this celebrated pairing – affectionately titled “Nixa” by fans – so hot? Is it the fact they’re a couple of tall, brooding preternaturally beautiful men? Perhaps it’s the fact that both exude a type of sizzling intensity, so that there appears to be a constant electrical tension between them. Whether you’re a Nixaphile or just a Bad Seeds fan, the video above – a piece of live concert footage that originally aired on German television – is very touching. The crowd evidently expected Kylie Minogue to appear on stage and sing Where The Wild Roses Grow with Nick Cave like she does in the music video, but guess who took her place? That’s right. Blixa. The Aragorn to Nick Cave’s Legolas. The Lee Adama to to Nick Cave’s Romo Lampkin. The Lord Voldemort to Nick Cave’s … oh, just watch the video.
I love the part where Nick gives Blixa a flower! So romantic. And just ’cause, here’s a hot picture of a younger Blixa:
What makes Viktoria “bizarre”? Is it her amputated leg? Is it the fact that she has an amputated leg and is still incredibly sexy? Or is it that she has an amputated leg and still considers herself a sexual person? Is this empowering? And to who? Surely the disabled are desexualized in this country, so it’s nice to see that challenged even, I suppose, in a magazine about weirdos. And yet, I suspect her sexuality is acceptable, fetishizable, only because she conforms to expectations of feminine beauty. In the big scheme of things, does she reproduce the standard of beauty, unattainable for most women, that crushes women’s self-esteem and sense of self-worth? And will disabled women, most of whom (like most non-disabled women) could never dream of being so beautiful, actually look at her and be able to identify? Or will this just draw attention to another way in which they don’t match up?
Now really, I think that SocImages went a little overboard with Viktoria (especially when they dismissed her comments about sexuality as “standard porn star talk”). Maybe it’s because I know her little better than they do, but I think that they oversimplify the genuine place that she comes from in choosing to be a model. However, they do bring up an important discussion that’s been nagging me for some time. What is an alternative model, and what is an alt model’s role in visual culture? In my life, at various points, I came up with 3 different definitions. I believe in each of them, and I have a problem with each of them as well. Here they are below. Which one resonates with you? Do you think it’s a combination of the three below, or something completely different? Opinions, please.
1. The model who challenges society’s notions of beauty.
I love these models, but the issue here is that, while they appear to push the boundaries of beauty in some direction, they usually wind up brutally reinforcing another traditional notion in the process. For example, trans models make us rethink gender/beauty, but with their self-presentation they usually reinforce the ideal of a sleek, hairless feminine figure, thus fueling the hair-removal industry. In fact, epilator-manufacturer Philips Norelco has already found a way to to capitalize on this to great effect – just watch this ad. And large models like Velvet D’Amour and skinny-by-comparison but still-considered-plus-size recent ANTM winner Whitney Thompson help to redefine weight in modeling, but what makes them “legitimately beautiful” in the eyes of the mainstream world is their “correct” bone structure, their blond hair. Without some “redeeming quality” of this sort, the world doesn’t recognize them as models, and wouldn’t even give them a shot at making a difference. Mainstream media often presents them as beautiful “in spite of,” not “because of.” While their individual messages are empowering (I love Velvet’s interviews), I don’t find our culture’s use of these models empowering at all.
Allow me, for a moment, to indulge my inner 14 year old. Set aside any prejudice you might have against models and guns to revel in this glorious anime-inspired spread by Chinese photographer Chen Zhun.
It’s unclear whether these specimens are genetically modified or touched by Photoshop magic, but, between their sky-high legs [unofficial leg day on Coilhouse?], skin tight gear and hilarious action faces I just don’t care. While I’d avoid putting flames on the motorcycle and add more interesting hairstyles to the shoot, overall this is the sort of thing that fills me with unabashed glee.
And the clothes! The cast of Æon Flux would approve. As realistic as clear milk-filled breast domes and riding motorcycles in heels & underpants can be – thus appropriately animé. The translucent boots, beige leather and strange eggish backpack which I now must acquire are my favorite. Forge onward through the jump for more antelope women, helmets and latex.
I am the fly in the ointment. Accept the next dose of disease.
Okay, so we’re a little late to the Green Porno party. But what we lack in punctuality we more than make up for in enthusiasm for these warped short films.
Isabella “Put Your Disease in Me” Rossellini outdoes herself (and actually does herself) in this eight-part series about the sex lives of various insects, arachnids and molluscs. Produced by Sundance expressly for smaller digital screens (computers, cell phones, etc) the whole series is just dirty, filthy, good clean fun. Try to imagine a Children’s Television Workshop-produced interpretation of that transcendently horrible pterodactyl pr0n and you’ll be somewhere in the ballpark. But not really.
Move over, Sea Cucumber; your title as “most obscene specimen of marine life” has just been usurped. Enter The Pigbutt Worm! In addition to its official name, this newly-discovered species is also sometimes called The Flying Buttocks. Its Latin name, Chaetopterus pugaporcinus, translates to “resembling a pig’s rump.” These marble-sized creatures float below oxygen minimum zone and appear to catch food inside a small cloud of mucus that surrounds their mouth. Yum!
So Coilhouse is supposed to be on this crazy deadline moratorium but when I saw this picture, for some reason it made me think of all of you, and I just had to share. Enjoy!
Many thanks to (what other pervert could have submitted this?) Paul Komoda.
“Developed by an American physician, George Taylor, M.D., it was a large, cumbersome, steam-powered apparatus. Taylor recommended it for treatment of an illness known at the time as “female hysteria.” Hysteria, from the Greek for “suffering uterus,” involved anxiety, irritability, sexual fantasies, “pelvic heaviness” and “excessive” vaginal lubrication — in other words, sexual arousal. However, since it was the Victorian era, women were not considered to be at all sexual and it was therefore deemed a disease. Physicians of that era treated hysteria by massaging sufferers’ vulvas until they experienced dramatic relief through “paroxysm” (orgasm). Unfortunately, hysteria was a recurrent condition and repeated treatment was often necessary. Taylor touted his steam-driven massage device as speeding treatment while reducing physician fatigue.”
Does anyone know where this image actually came from? It’s been around for years. Of course it would be awesome if this were a real artifact from the 19th century, though I somehow doubt it. Someone told me once that it’s actually a scan from an old issue of a men’s magazine (Esquire, maybe?), and that this was a humorous illustrative prop for an article on the history of vibrators. If that’s the case, then whoever designed this masterpiece was ahead of their time. Or backwards in time, only on another timeline. Or whatever.
On Sunday I had the heavenly pleasure of discovering another one of those LA places you won’t hear of too often. Olympic Spa is a women-only retreat in an otherwise barren stretch of Koreatown. Believe it or not, I’d never been to a spa unless you wish to count trips to the banya as a kid growing up in Russia.
Banya is one of those unforgettable [read: traumatic] quintessentially Russian experiences I’ll always treasure. At its core a bath house/steam room, the banya employs some interesting props and tactics, beyond the expected towel or, perhaps, loofah. Take, for instance, the venik. This is a bunch of actual fresh n’ leafy twigs with which one is expected to self-flagellate in order to achieve some ultimate softness. You have not known true confusion until you’ve seen a nude 70 year old babushka operate one of these things inside a packed steam room. An impressive explanation of banyas can be found on Wikipedia, where I chuckle at the writers’ innocent explanation of the term “podjopnik” as “something to sit on”. Pdjopnik, literally, translates to “under-ass-nik”. I’ve never actually heard anyone use it. But I digress.
Russkaya Venera [Russian Venus] by Boris Kustodiev
My banya experiences left me comfortable with the idea of a hall filled with nude wet women of all shapes, sizes and ages. Once the initial panic subsides, it all becomes relaxing and comforting in a primal way, as was the case at Olympic Spa. I began with a proper dry steaming, followed by a dip in a glorious tea pool, then a mineral pool and salt steam room. A very small lady called me from the salty vapor to begin the main event. As I followed her to the massage table my cobalt hair and tattoos earned a few sideways glances, but just a few – everyone was much too busy luxuriating to concern themselves with my towel-staining.
For the next two hours this tiny hurricane of a lady did things, things unlike any I’d experienced until that point. This involved an extremely vigorous scrub, buckets of seaweed water, what felt like at least a gallon of oil and more. I don’t want to spoil the actual magic of what their signature Goddess Treatment entails, but take my word for it – so worth it. Suffice to say within 20 minutes I was convinced I was in a harem filled with beautiful slave girls, being prepared for the Sheik [really]. And no, there was no happy ending, you perverts – just a very intense massage and exfoliating treatment that left even my elbows and knees velvet-soft. It would have been criminal not to share this place with the good women of Coilhouse and I fully intend to drag a few friends next time I go. Velvet-flesh for all!
Womens’ correctional facilities are the ultimate sleep-over party with all the trappings: pajamas, bunk beds, in-fighting, sloppy joes, getting touched up under the covers, and being told when to go to bed. Some prisons even let the girls play dress-up. Miss America, meet Miss Demeanor:
To be fair, it’s primarily inmates who organize these shows. It’s an increasingly popular phenomenon, with womens’ prisons hosting beauty pageants in Russia, Brazil, Peru, Honduras, Angola and the Philippines, amongst others, with working titles like Miss Captivity. The idea is to ‘boost’ the self-esteem of (at least the better looking portion of) the prison population.
There is arguably an obvious exploitative angle in this, one which perpetuates gender and class divisions in a place where women are their most vulnerable. The media is only too happy to join in, throwing the spotlight on the tragedy of a pretty young woman in distress, putting herself on display. A beauty contest under these conditions probably does next to nothing for the self esteem or prospects of the contestants in any meaningful way.
It’s almost a perverse caricature of a parole board hearing in a Van Halen video, an effort to charm your way into garnering favour from you captors and respite from your situation by any measure necessary. Having said that, spending years trapped like an animal in a gray, clinical dorm framed in razor wire, any warm-blooded woman would thirst for anything beautiful in her world. Participation in these productions transiently refashions the contestant from a shoplifter or drug addict into a graceful, sophisticated and beautiful person of seeming worth, if only for one evening. Who could condemn the contestants for their humble aspirations and for enjoying an event which breaks up the tedium of Gilligan’s Island re-runs on prison TV?
The bald, glistening pate of Telly Savalas has always stirred unutterable longings deep within me. I’m having trouble deciding which video for his cover of “If” I love more. This first version, where Kojak’s officially the shy one at some orgy…
