I think there are numerous contemporary Asian artists whose work interrogates the “modern” Asian experience. But the unyielding insistence on viewing the East as an unchanging repository of “tradition,” vis-à-vis the West as the legitimate home of “modernity,” has led the art world at large to overlook the practices of such Asian contemporary artists. When Der Blaue Reiter riff off of African objets d’art or Chinese paintings, we say, how original; we consign them to the avant-garde. But when an Asian artist references Fauvism or uses a motif of Kandinsky’s, we say, how derivative.

I believe that intelligent curatorial practice can contribute to how we look at cultures, how we interact with various cultures. At the same time, of course, curating is not a neutral exercise. Curating is my point of view, my interpretation of what is going on.

When I started producing exhibitions for institutions that were not from my own country, I had to take on a different position. I had to try and see what the region, these artists, and these works looked like through someone else’s eyes. At the same time, what was imperative to me was to challenge romanticized perceptions of the region.

It is not to deny that you see the Southeast Asian region as exotic.

But—I could very well think you are quite exotic as well.

See, it’s a matter of relativity, an impulse to return the gaze.

Why Do Chinese People Have Slanted Eyes? by Singaporean writer and editor Amanda Lee Koe

TW: sexual assault

News reports of sexual violence in India interspersed with clips from Bollywood and Indian pop culture highlighting sheer entrenched misogyny, as well as interviews with perpetrators and targets of sexual harassment and slut-shaming/”eve teasing”.

It’s difficult to watch, but still necessary. (Also the Indian women news reporters are kickass.

joannalannister:

A 13-year-old eagle huntress in Mongolia

The Kazakhs of the Altai mountain range in western Mongolia are the only people that hunt with golden eagles, and today there are around 400 practising falconers. Ashol-Pan, the daughter of a particularly celebrated hunter, may well be the country’s only apprentice huntress.
They hunt in winter, when the temperatures can drop to -40C (-40F). A hunt begins with days of trekking on horseback through snow to a mountain or ridge giving an excellent view of prey for miles around. Hunters generally work in teams. After a fox is spotted, riders charge towards it to flush it into the open, and an eagle is released. If the eagle fails to make a kill, another is released.


On the Mefi thread there were a lot of calls for Ashol-Pan’s story to become some sort of YA Lit or superhero fic, so I got inspired and started one. There’s more to the story, but here’s the comment I made on Mefi:

The mountains surrounding her village were often seen by outsiders as obstacle courses to be tackled, challenges to be conquered and boasted about, or avoid in fear. Scary, treacherous, intimidating.
For Ashol-Pan it was her playground: trees to clamber on, caves and shrubs as hiding spots, and the mountains themselves as towers for her to view her world from up high. Just like Ake’s eagle, she imagines.
Today, like many other days, she has accompanied her father to one of his hunts. While he readies his regal golden eagle for today’s hunt - perhaps a fox to replace the tattered fur in his old hat, or a hare for dinner - Ashol-Pan plays explorer, imagining herself as her father’s eagle, traversing great heights and lengths to find sustenance. All in a day’s work.
She swoops close to a nearby plateau, a little too high for her growing body to reach - maybe she’ll grow big enough soon enough. There is a nest sitting on the plateau, filled with cracked eggshell - and on the ground was a tiny ball of mud-brown fluff, pecking curiously at Ashol-Pan’s feet before nuzzling against her ankles.
"Oh, what is this?"
She picks up the fluffball and finds that it is an eaglet, barely a few weeks old, eyes bright and wide. She looks at the eaglet closely and notices that one of its wings seem to be a little bent.
"Oh little one! What has happened to you? Where is your Ake and Ana?"
She looks around for eagles like the one her father has, ones that could be the eaglet’s parents, but she doesn’t see any flying about. She tries to climb up to the plateau for a better, but it’s difficult to scale the rock surface while still holding the eaglet.
Not long after, her own Ake comes for her.
"Ashol-Pan! Where are you? It’s time to go home!"
Her father sees her try to reach the plateau, almost dangling off the edge. He grabs Ashol-Pan off the plateau and sets her safely on the ground.
"What were you trying to do, Ashol-Pan? You could have fallen and hurt yourself!"
"I was trying to help it, Abba," says Ashol-Pan, showing him the eaglet she has cupped in her hands. "I think it is hurt, its wings are not right. I wanted to find its Ake and Ana, maybe they can help him."
"It’s a good thing I came to find you, or else your legs would be just like his wing,” replies her father. He looks at the nest on the plateau - a little too far away even for his grown-up body. Just as he does so, a large golden eagle, about the same size as Ashol-Pan, flies by, a rabbit in its claws. Ashol-Pan sees the ribbon on the eagle’s foot; it’s her father’s hunting eagle.
"Could your eagle be its Ake?" asks Ashol-Pan, holding up the eaglet to its elder self. Her father’s eagle peers at the not-quite-fluffball-anymore but there does not seem to be any recognition.
"It would have to be its Ana, dear girl - all hunting eagles are female," answers her father. "Even so, I don’t think they’re related. My eagle comes from further away, and besides, she would not have laid eggs here when she has been with us for some time."
Ashol-Pan looks at the eaglet, who looks back at her with perhaps a sense of sadness - or longing - or some care-for-me plea only baby eaglets have. If this little one has no Ake or Ana…who will take care of it?
"Can we take it home, Ake?" asks Ashol-Pan. "Just like you bring home your baby eaglets?"
Ashol-Pan’s father takes a closer look at the eaglet. “Usually we take in strong, healthy eaglets,” he replies. “The hurt ones don’t make good hunters.”
"But we can help it get better! Like how I got better when I hurt my leg or arm, we can do that! Then it can be a good hunter!" says Ashol-Pan. "Please, Ake, please?"
Ashol-Pan’s father thinks for a moment. He’s trained and taken in many eagles since he was a young boy, barely older than his daughter now. He has helped heal broken wings or talons before, but that was a sign of the eagle’s end of service; he’d never trained an injured eagle to hunt before. And again, the weaker eaglets don’t usually get selected anyway.
He sees the look in his daughter’s eyes, matching the face of the eaglets. Whatever kind of plea the eaglet’s making, Ashol-Pan’s picked up on it. 
Maybe just for a while.
"OK, we can keep and care for this one here," says her father, "but once it is healthy it is time to let them go. And you have to make sure you take care of it well. I can help and teach you, of course, but this little one is your responsibility. Understand?"
Ashol-Pan was beaming; she could swear the eaglet was smiling too.
"Yes, Ake!"
After dinner that night - the roasted hare captured by her father’s eagle - Ashol-Pan fashioned a small nest out of some nearby leaves and twigs, and sets the eaglet gently inside. She then finds some gold thread, leftover from her Ana’s sewing efforts, and - following in her father’s footsteps - ties the string around its leg; a difficult endeavour, given the size of the eaglet, but one she manages after a while.
"There you go, Altyn," naming her eaglet. "As bright as the gold string around you."

joannalannister:

A 13-year-old eagle huntress in Mongolia

The Kazakhs of the Altai mountain range in western Mongolia are the only people that hunt with golden eagles, and today there are around 400 practising falconers. Ashol-Pan, the daughter of a particularly celebrated hunter, may well be the country’s only apprentice huntress.

They hunt in winter, when the temperatures can drop to -40C (-40F). A hunt begins with days of trekking on horseback through snow to a mountain or ridge giving an excellent view of prey for miles around. Hunters generally work in teams. After a fox is spotted, riders charge towards it to flush it into the open, and an eagle is released. If the eagle fails to make a kill, another is released.

On the Mefi thread there were a lot of calls for Ashol-Pan’s story to become some sort of YA Lit or superhero fic, so I got inspired and started one. There’s more to the story, but here’s the comment I made on Mefi:

The mountains surrounding her village were often seen by outsiders as obstacle courses to be tackled, challenges to be conquered and boasted about, or avoid in fear. Scary, treacherous, intimidating.

For Ashol-Pan it was her playground: trees to clamber on, caves and shrubs as hiding spots, and the mountains themselves as towers for her to view her world from up high. Just like Ake’s eagle, she imagines.

Today, like many other days, she has accompanied her father to one of his hunts. While he readies his regal golden eagle for today’s hunt - perhaps a fox to replace the tattered fur in his old hat, or a hare for dinner - Ashol-Pan plays explorer, imagining herself as her father’s eagle, traversing great heights and lengths to find sustenance. All in a day’s work.

She swoops close to a nearby plateau, a little too high for her growing body to reach - maybe she’ll grow big enough soon enough. There is a nest sitting on the plateau, filled with cracked eggshell - and on the ground was a tiny ball of mud-brown fluff, pecking curiously at Ashol-Pan’s feet before nuzzling against her ankles.

"Oh, what is this?"

She picks up the fluffball and finds that it is an eaglet, barely a few weeks old, eyes bright and wide. She looks at the eaglet closely and notices that one of its wings seem to be a little bent.

"Oh little one! What has happened to you? Where is your Ake and Ana?"

She looks around for eagles like the one her father has, ones that could be the eaglet’s parents, but she doesn’t see any flying about. She tries to climb up to the plateau for a better, but it’s difficult to scale the rock surface while still holding the eaglet.

Not long after, her own Ake comes for her.

"Ashol-Pan! Where are you? It’s time to go home!"

Her father sees her try to reach the plateau, almost dangling off the edge. He grabs Ashol-Pan off the plateau and sets her safely on the ground.

"What were you trying to do, Ashol-Pan? You could have fallen and hurt yourself!"

"I was trying to help it, Abba," says Ashol-Pan, showing him the eaglet she has cupped in her hands. "I think it is hurt, its wings are not right. I wanted to find its Ake and Ana, maybe they can help him."

"It’s a good thing I came to find you, or else your legs would be just like his wing,” replies her father. He looks at the nest on the plateau - a little too far away even for his grown-up body. Just as he does so, a large golden eagle, about the same size as Ashol-Pan, flies by, a rabbit in its claws. Ashol-Pan sees the ribbon on the eagle’s foot; it’s her father’s hunting eagle.

"Could your eagle be its Ake?" asks Ashol-Pan, holding up the eaglet to its elder self. Her father’s eagle peers at the not-quite-fluffball-anymore but there does not seem to be any recognition.

"It would have to be its Ana, dear girl - all hunting eagles are female," answers her father. "Even so, I don’t think they’re related. My eagle comes from further away, and besides, she would not have laid eggs here when she has been with us for some time."

Ashol-Pan looks at the eaglet, who looks back at her with perhaps a sense of sadness - or longing - or some care-for-me plea only baby eaglets have. If this little one has no Ake or Ana…who will take care of it?

"Can we take it home, Ake?" asks Ashol-Pan. "Just like you bring home your baby eaglets?"

Ashol-Pan’s father takes a closer look at the eaglet. “Usually we take in strong, healthy eaglets,” he replies. “The hurt ones don’t make good hunters.”

"But we can help it get better! Like how I got better when I hurt my leg or arm, we can do that! Then it can be a good hunter!" says Ashol-Pan. "Please, Ake, please?"

Ashol-Pan’s father thinks for a moment. He’s trained and taken in many eagles since he was a young boy, barely older than his daughter now. He has helped heal broken wings or talons before, but that was a sign of the eagle’s end of service; he’d never trained an injured eagle to hunt before. And again, the weaker eaglets don’t usually get selected anyway.

He sees the look in his daughter’s eyes, matching the face of the eaglets. Whatever kind of plea the eaglet’s making, Ashol-Pan’s picked up on it.

Maybe just for a while.

"OK, we can keep and care for this one here," says her father, "but once it is healthy it is time to let them go. And you have to make sure you take care of it well. I can help and teach you, of course, but this little one is your responsibility. Understand?"

Ashol-Pan was beaming; she could swear the eaglet was smiling too.

"Yes, Ake!"

After dinner that night - the roasted hare captured by her father’s eagle - Ashol-Pan fashioned a small nest out of some nearby leaves and twigs, and sets the eaglet gently inside. She then finds some gold thread, leftover from her Ana’s sewing efforts, and - following in her father’s footsteps - ties the string around its leg; a difficult endeavour, given the size of the eaglet, but one she manages after a while.

"There you go, Altyn," naming her eaglet. "As bright as the gold string around you."

mu5icliz:

eldritch-elegy:

fuckyeahnerdpr0n:

whelp, I can now turn off the internet, I have seen everything

He also wore sweaters because of tattoos I believe he got in the Navy.

All this time i thought he was the image of suburbia. Turns out he’s more street than i am

Snopes says nope.

Fred Rogers served as a sniper or as a Navy SEAL during the Vietnam War, with a large number of confirmed kills to his credit.
A popular form of humor-cum-legend is to float a rumor that some mild-mannered, physically unimposing celebrity (such as John Denver or Don Knotts) not only served in the military, but held a position particularly known for requiring toughness and extreme mental and physical fortitude, such as a Navy SEAL, an Army Green Beret, a Marine Corps drill instructor, or an armed services sniper. Fred Rogers has also been the subject of such rumors, all of them false.
Not only did Fred Rogers never serve in the military, there are no gaps in his career when he could conceivably have done so. He went straight into college after high school, he moved directly into TV work after graduating college, and his breaks from television work were devoted to attending the Pittsburgh Theological Seminary (he was ordained as a Presbyterian minister in 1963) and the University of Pittsburgh’s Graduate School of Child Development. Moreover, Fred Rogers was born in 1928 and was therefore far too old to have been a draftee during the period of America’s military involvement in the Vietnam ground war (1965-72) and too established in his career at that point to have run off to enlist.
Fred Rogers always wore long-sleeved shirts and sweaters on his show to conceal the tattoos on his arms he obtained while serving in the military.
Fred Rogers never served in the military, and he bore no tattoos on his arms (or any other part of his body). He wore long-sleeved shirts and sweaters on his show as a stylistic choice, in order to maintain an air of formality with youngsters. Although he was friendly with the children in his viewing audience and talked to them on their own level, he was most definitely an authority figure on a par with parents and teachers (he was Mister Rogers to them, after all, not “Fred”), and his choice of dress was intended to establish and foster that relationship.
Fred Rogers “flipped the bird” to his young audience during the taping of his final show in December 2000
Images of Fred Rogers posing with one or both middle fingers extended have long been circulated on the Internet with captions claiming they captured the children’s show host disdainfully “flipping off” his audience during the taping of the final Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood episode. Although the pictures may appear puzzling out of context, they’re actually screen captures from a harmless moment in 1967 when Fred Rogers led some youngsters through the familiar children’s song “Where Is Thumbkin?,” which is traditionally accompanied by participants’ holding up the corresponding fingers as they are each named in the song.

mu5icliz:

eldritch-elegy:

fuckyeahnerdpr0n:

whelp, I can now turn off the internet, I have seen everything

He also wore sweaters because of tattoos I believe he got in the Navy.

All this time i thought he was the image of suburbia. Turns out he’s more street than i am

Snopes says nope.

Fred Rogers served as a sniper or as a Navy SEAL during the Vietnam War, with a large number of confirmed kills to his credit.

A popular form of humor-cum-legend is to float a rumor that some mild-mannered, physically unimposing celebrity (such as John Denver or Don Knotts) not only served in the military, but held a position particularly known for requiring toughness and extreme mental and physical fortitude, such as a Navy SEAL, an Army Green Beret, a Marine Corps drill instructor, or an armed services sniper. Fred Rogers has also been the subject of such rumors, all of them false.

Not only did Fred Rogers never serve in the military, there are no gaps in his career when he could conceivably have done so. He went straight into college after high school, he moved directly into TV work after graduating college, and his breaks from television work were devoted to attending the Pittsburgh Theological Seminary (he was ordained as a Presbyterian minister in 1963) and the University of Pittsburgh’s Graduate School of Child Development. Moreover, Fred Rogers was born in 1928 and was therefore far too old to have been a draftee during the period of America’s military involvement in the Vietnam ground war (1965-72) and too established in his career at that point to have run off to enlist.

Fred Rogers always wore long-sleeved shirts and sweaters on his show to conceal the tattoos on his arms he obtained while serving in the military.

Fred Rogers never served in the military, and he bore no tattoos on his arms (or any other part of his body). He wore long-sleeved shirts and sweaters on his show as a stylistic choice, in order to maintain an air of formality with youngsters. Although he was friendly with the children in his viewing audience and talked to them on their own level, he was most definitely an authority figure on a par with parents and teachers (he was Mister Rogers to them, after all, not “Fred”), and his choice of dress was intended to establish and foster that relationship.

Fred Rogers “flipped the bird” to his young audience during the taping of his final show in December 2000

Images of Fred Rogers posing with one or both middle fingers extended have long been circulated on the Internet with captions claiming they captured the children’s show host disdainfully “flipping off” his audience during the taping of the final Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood episode. Although the pictures may appear puzzling out of context, they’re actually screen captures from a harmless moment in 1967 when Fred Rogers led some youngsters through the familiar children’s song “Where Is Thumbkin?,” which is traditionally accompanied by participants’ holding up the corresponding fingers as they are each named in the song.

(via tismydistinction)

[[harry potter in the 90s?]]

kelleycarries:

i wish more harry potter fic would focus on the fact the trio were teenagers in the 90’s think of what we could have

  • the muggleborn students bringing lisa frank notebooks to school to the bemusement of the other students only to start a sparkle rainbow unicorn phase
  • kids charming pokemon cards with the same magic used to make their photos move dont pretend you wouldnt want that
  • a desperate attempt from the teachers to put a stop to the pokemon card game (if one more duel breaks out over that goddamn shining charizard card) which fails because the students just end up charming them to keep the cards hidden
  • magical wizards taking advantage of the beanie baby craze and creating toys infused with magical properties - hippogriffs and doxy’s and a whole range of mini dragons that can breathe realistic fire. arthur weasley had to work three weeks straight to calm down the mess that started when muggle collectors somehow got hold of them
  • hermione bringing her portable cd player (and large bag of cds) to the burrow one evening to listen to some music while she does her work and having to explain to mr weasley it’s exact properties and function
  • harry finding an old tamagotchi in dudley’s old room and givng it to ron for a laugh. ron manages to kill it in five minutes
  • skip it vs quidditch arguments in the common rooms (what do you mean you just jump over it wheres the skill in that)
  • everyone knows the fresh prince of bel air theme tune, pureblood or not you know it
  • magically enchanted pogs (remember herpo the foul? he’s back, in pog form!)
  • denim on denim robes

They’re British, how much of this would really apply to them? Beanie Babies, Fresh Prince, and Lisa Frank are all really American.

I’d imagine an epic Spice Girls revival. Maybe even some sort of magically charmed Barbie trend thanks to Aqua (because I am a fangirl).

The Muggleborns would have a lot of Smash Hits and Top of the Pops mags and try to keep up with the show if at all possible. Or they’d move on to NME and Britpop (Blur, Suede, Space).

Princess Diana’s death could have been a big deal if it didn’t also fall on the same year as the Second Wizarding War.

Other then that I’m not sure what else 90s Brits would have been into culturally. Any 90s Brit people want to chime in?

(via alchemy)

"These Victors are angry, Katniss. They’ll say anything to try and stop The Games. I suggest you do the same.”

You know what I find really interesting about this part here?

The other victors could have easily made it District 12’s fault. Why did they have to pull that stunt of joint suicide? Why did Peeta have to use the whole star-crossed-lovers gambit? Why did Katniss have to volunteer? What’s with all this Mockingjay shit? If those two could have just played along and followed the rules then none of them would be in this position to start with. They’d continue on their merry lives, their safety guaranteed.

Instead even the districts that dismissed District 12 in previous games - particularly Districts 1 and 2 - are in solidarity with Katniss and Peeta. Quietly or overtly. They place the blame squarely on the Capitol, never Katniss or Peeta.

Sure, some of them are still after Katniss and Peeta in the actual arena, as they always have in their earlier Hunger Games - mostly because that’s what the game calls for. Not all of them have the ability, interest, or space to completely buck the system the way the alliance in Catching Fire does. Even so, they show a considerable amount of respect for Katniss and Peeta, recognising that it is not their fault that they have to relive this hell.

I’ve seen supposedly liberal, progressive, or radical “solidarity” groups fall apart over infighting. I’ve seen people blame each other for continued oppression rather than pointing responsibility over the divide-and-conquering oppressor. A situation like this? Rare. And beautiful all the same.

(via quitefair)

Liminality -a psychological, neurological, or metaphysical subjective state, conscious or unconscious, of being on the “threshold” of, or between two different existential planes.

The attributes of liminality or of liminal personae (“threshold people”) are necessarily ambiguous. One’s sense of identity dissolves to some extent, bringing about disorientation, but also the possibility of new perspectives.

Indeed, if liminality is regarded as a time and place of withdrawal from normal modes of social action, it can be seen as potentially a period of scrutinization of the central values and axioms of the culture in which it occurs -one where normal limits to thought, self-understanding, and behavior are undone.

People, places, or things may not complete a transition (or a transition between two states may not be fully possible), with those who remain in an inbetween state becoming permanently liminal; the alternative is an acceptance or forgiveness…of structure in a movement of return from a liminal situation.

Victor Turner (via wedontbelieveinfiller)
The trick to magic is that it lies in between. In between what? It almost doesn’t matter. It just has to be in between. Not blue or yellow, but green. Not sun or moon, but the light of dusk. Not river or land, but the bridge that spans the water. … A place between, you see. You can find them anywhere.
Charles de Lint (via numenna)
this blog used to have a purpose, and now it's just really random. la de dah.

tiara. from nowhere in particular. labels and i do not have an amicable relationship. liminal platypus. apparently part of the sacred twenty-eight.

twitter.com/creatrixtiara

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