Photography Assignment In Studio 61

Slip of a Girl has been sharing photos from the Fall 1951 issue of Photography Workshop (#3). The photos are from, and most of the issue devoted to, "Assignment in Studio 61", an artistic experiment in which 12 photographers photograph the same items. Here's a more precise description from the publication itself:

Each photographer was shown into a studio room that contained an assortment of interesting props. Each was also given a dozen sheets of test pictures for selecting one to three models. Working within the confines of this one studio room and with these particular props and subjects, the photographer was then to let his imagination loose and make any sort of photographs that came into his mind -- portraits, still lifes, figure studies, abstractions or fashion pictures.

The most recent photo she's shared comes from photo-journalist W. Eugene Smith, who was at the time a staff photographer for Life magazine. There are 20 more photos, little 2 & 1/2 inch squares, which I'm showing here -- not just because of their nudity, but because of the text published along with the photos.






We begin with the first paragraph (of four), written as an introduction by the publication:

W. Eugene Smith, an intense, congenial, 33-year-old photographer whose work we have admired for the past decade, approached the Studio 61 project with some reluctance. To Gene, a photograph is no simple matter of tripping a shutter. It is a profound personal experience. He insists on becoming, through his camera, intimately involved in his subject. He approaches the scene of picture making with a "desperate terror" that he will fail to record the perfect picture. The perfect picture, he explains with passionate vagueness, is a "three-dimensional, or mental essay" on the subject, and anything less than this is a humiliation just short of death.

The text continues to say that the photographer spent from dusk to dawn at the studio and still, "as usual, he was not satisfied with the results."






He only allowed the prints to be seen and published "after getting our promise to run his testimony that the pictures were to be considered only as 'finger exercises' for limbering up a subject."





And then Gene's own words were printed -- I find them fascinating:

I had just returned from Spain and a story that had involved my emotions to the exhaustion point, when it was suggested that I do this trick for the Workshop. All right, I thought, for once I would do pictures in which there was no need to be emotionally involved.

In that night of work, the nearer I got to shooting, the more upset I got. I soon realized that I couldn't compromise my integrity. I had no definite statement to make with a subject brought illogically into an assortment of props. I was trying to compose nothing into nothing. What I am interested in, as a photo-journalist, is truth. You would not ask Arthur Miller to write an Olsen and Johnsen musical. Nor would you ask William Faulkner to write an advertisement for Maidenform brassieres.

I objected to the layout treatment given my pictures. There were arbitrarily cut into twenty small squares by the editors. I never compose in squares, and when I do compose with the camera that I used that night -- a Contax -- I compose to the edge. Most of the time that night, I was searching and operating the camera for the sole purpose of relaxing my subject. I started taking pictures to build to something in the same way that a play is rehearsed; you allow the the thing to grow. (How many times have I taken a three rolls of of pictures as fast as I could! Just to get the subject to bored and unaware of of the camera.) Sometimes I wouldn't even have bothered to focus.

I feel that these odd scraps of pictures should not be published. No one would think of playing all the disconnected musical fragments Beethoven wrote in the construction of a symphony.

I aim to devote my camera to sincere presentation of character. I want to express this character accurately. Recently, I withdrew a print from an exhibition of mine -- a print that several critics had called one of my best photographs. I withdrew it because, since taking the the picture, I had come to know the subject better. My understanding of that person had changed; I had lost respect for this person and did not believe that he deserved the dignity that the portrait conveyed. To me, then, the picture was a fraud.

I would like to take my Studio 61 subject, study her for weeks, and then photograph her again. Perhaps, then, I could show in pictures what she truly is, who she is, why she is.

At the risk of sounding like your Art 101 instructor, here's what fascinates me about Smith's words and work...






I can't help but wonder what the photos looked like before the editor cropped them to those small squares... For example, #15 is the cropped version of the latest one at Slip's blog; there's certainly a huge difference in the appeal to me.

And after reading Smith's words, I cringe at the obviously non-linear order the photos are presented in (yes, they are shown in the order presented on the page); it seems more insult to injury to have destroyed any attempt to show the growing story.

I also cringed every single time Smith used the word "pictures" rather than photographs (and then again when I typed it). This due to former my art instructors who insisted we use the word "photograph"; like "painting", it separated art from doodles, graphics & other visual things, and also distinguished one form of art from another. Perhaps this is not necessary to the conversation today; but, hey, it's my blog.

Speaking of art...

I would have enjoyed the photographs more (or at least most of them -- certainly some are 'better' than others to me) had I not read Smith's words. But knowing what I know now, I must say it begs the question that I once threw at my art instructor when she showed us images of a Venus statue buried deep in a garbage pit, found by archaeologists, then proffered as "art": Is it really art if the artist himself is dissatisfied? If art is expression & communication, and the artist is unhappy with his result, then can it really be called art?





If not, then Smith's displeasure at the photographs renders them what... pornography? Maybe not, because while I like many of the photos, I don't find them arousing. (Hmm, well, maybe #6; but that's because I have breasts and I can feel the coldness emanating off of the metal headboard finger my bare -- not touching the headboard, but merely near it -- breast.) Then again, I don't get aroused by much of what is called "pornography." But as the photos were cropped, adjusted by an editor, would that make the editor the pornographer? Similarly, if I like them in any way, does that make the editor the artist?

And if the photos had both pleased Smith and aroused me, could they really be porn at all -- because Smith himself defines his work as pictures that show "what she truly is, who she is, why she is" and, since no one is "all arousing all the time" (no matter what your lover says!), doesn't that remove all possibility of his nude photographs being porn at all?

Maybe then the photos are indeed just 'pictures' or snaps like anyone with a camera would take. But they were not taken by just anyone; they are photos by W. Eugene Smith.

Does Smith's standing as a photojournalist affect your viewing of the images?

Does his credibility change, do his words change in meaning -- or your interpretation thereof -- when you learn that Smith was institutionalized at Bellevue a year or so prior to his taking the photos?

Let's Make Love In The Blue Lagoon

I absolutely abhor it when a person starts off a blog with "I'm sorry I haven't written", a preamble to some excuse that, frankly, nobody really wants to read; but today I have to do it. (Such is the curse of uttering the word "never".)

I've had a dreadful sinus infection, keeping me couch-ridden for several weeks as moms cannot afford to take to their beds and still watch the tots -- yet I was too tired to climb the stairs just for a change of sleeping venue. The reason I mention this is not to 'excuse' my absence (as a hobby-blogger, you pay me nothing for my services; so I owe you nothing in return), but rather to explain just how I managed to watch hours upon hours of films as I just have. OK, and maybe to justify things if, still under the influence of cold medicine & an antibiotic still ripping its way through my digestive tract (and sure to cause a yeast infection), I don't make a lot of sense right now.

Enough of the disclaimers already; get yourself a beverage and settle in to read because I'm about to begin a long post.

For the second time in my life I watched Let's Make Love (1960). The first time I saw it in its entirety I was about 16 & I really disliked it.

I told myself that I didn't like it because of Yves Montand. His personal ickyness in his relationship with Marilyn was so visible in his character (Jean Marc Clement) -- or at least that ickyness was the general perception of Jean Marc Clement & why the theatre group in the film was mocking him. Also, because 16 was the age at which I began stalking Marilyn Monroe, knowing how horrid director George Cukor was to her made me feel the whole film was a mean mess. While this film isn't Marilyn's greatest, and there's something valid in Marilyn's real life situations which would affect the film thus, the real truth -- the honest truth -- is that sixteen-year-old-me was uncomfortable with Marilyn's sexuality.

And it hits you right from the start of the film, with the voluptuous blonde wearing a bulky but short purple sweater over a sheer black nylon catsuit.



Strangely, I've always loved Marilyn singing My Heart Belongs To Daddy. I've owned it on CD and even performed the song, including public impersonation of Marilyn singing it (actually I did so twice, if you count my parody performance of My Heart Belongs To Mommy at a "lesbian music festival"). But the vision of Marilyn in such sexualized 60's beatnik garb just didn't sit right with me at 16; while the song was verbalized peek-a-boo & tease, the physical display was nearly vulgar to me.



Aesthetically speaking, I prefer more glamour and peek-a-boo tease than blatant sexuality in dress; but what made me squirm at that age, though I never would never say so out loud, was all those curves -- including a soft, feminine, rounded tummy. Watching the film again as an adult, I was once again embarrassed -- but this time, over my confused, immature, 16 year old self's reaction.

It's easy to understand, and forgive, a young woman's discomfort with such an out-there, highly-sexualized presentation of the female form. And I did forgive myself for that easily enough. But that other part, that lack of acceptance of a woman's real form -- including her belly, that seems unforgivable... Unless you allow for my early indoctrination of beauty standards which eschew the realities of the female form. And that's precisely what upsets me.



How unforgiving I was, how unkind to my idol, to not allow her her humanness in physical form when I was so ready, willing and able to condemn those, like Cukor and Montand, who wouldn't allow her human frailty-- or would exploit her for it. My inability to accept her non-perfection -- even when so uncomfortable being confronted with her attractiveness, her sexuality -- seems nearly unforgivable.

My only consolation is that I have out-grown such childish notions. Having put them aside, I no longer will need to avoid watching Let's Make Love.

Feeling wiser and somewhat emotionally victorious, but no better health-wise, I was prompted to then watch another movie that I had not seen since I was 16.

That movie was Blue Lagoon.



Blue Lagoon was the 'it' film for teens in 1980, and raised quite a ruckus which I felt was a much-to-do-about-nothing. Maybe it's because I was already reading far 'worse'; or maybe because while I found the film to be a sensual ode to (primarily) Brooke Shields, I did not find it erotic. Shields was (still is) beautiful, but I found the film footage to be more artistic than smutty... The island setting, the flora and fauna, the ocean and sky, were beautiful and Shields' beauty just seemed to blend in with that. It was natural. Not that sex isn't natural, but I didn't feel any heat. Not 'down there', not on my cheeks either.

You'd think that after all I said about Let's Make Love and Marilyn's obvious prancing sexuality that I'd have had some discomfort or other with this film. Especially as Let's Make Love was watched at home alone, while Blue Lagoon was a public trip to the theatre with my peers. But I didn't experience any sexual confusion or discomfort; at least not directly.



Perhaps this was because Christopher Atkins did next-to-nothing for me. He was too soft & pretty -- like those non-threatening boy-band guys (then and today). Which totally explains his 1982 nude appearance in Playgirl.

Even watching it again as an adult I was more moved by, attracted to, Brooke's beauty than his. But I certainly didn't feel 'erotic'.

Not that Let's Make Love made me feel erotic (then or now); but there was the idea of sex, much more so than in Blue Lagoon... In fact, Blue Lagoon, while lush & far more beautiful (in terms of film quality too), just had the feeling of kids playing at being grown-ups. It could have been the awkward acting, simplistic dialog dumbed-down rather than portraying innocence (almost mocking what we then-called Third World countries for a lack of education and superstitious rituals in place of actual Religion), but even then I held the director, Randal Kleiser, accountable for being too in lust with 'beauty' to care about the story.

In fact, I wasn't just "not erotically moved" by the film, but disappointed angry at what was delivered as opposed to what could have been. There were hints of possibilities, things to think about, but it was campy -- and what was up with that tacked-on rushed ending? Wasn't the family's return to 'society' one of the most interesting concepts to explore?

I guess Brooke & Chris were too beautiful for anyplace other than that island setting.

Anyway, the sticking point for this film, the food for thought for today, is what happened after my friends and I had watched the film back in 1980. All my friends, those I had seen the movie with and those who had just seen it period, were absolutely in teenage love-lust with Christopher Atkins -- and staring at me oddly because I was not.

This is where my embarrassment kicks in.

No, I didn't think I was a lesbian; I didn't think I had any problem at all. I was embarrassed by their adoration of this pretty man-child, that they would fall for some mishap of movie making which attempted to manipulate them -- transparently, cheaply, and without any skill or finesse. Like a cheesy country song or the clumsy hand of a careless lover whose only concern is to please himself. (Yes, Kleiser, you can take that personally.) How could girls fall for that? Truly embarrassing.

It was even more embarrassing & disconcerting than those who objected to the film for moral reasons.

I was keen to watch Blue Lagoon again after my recent experience with Let's Make Love, I wondered how I'd feel about it now; but nothing had changed after all. I'm still disturbed that anyone could be moved by the film enough to fall for the romance or be outraged by the immorality.

Whatever points 16-year-old-me lost with Let's Make Love I more than recouped with Blue Lagoon.

But my re-run movie fun isn't over yet.

Next, up The Wedding Singer. There's not much to say other than I have always loved this film (I own it and the soundtrack); as a product of the 80's why wouldn't I? While watching it with my husband he asked, "What else has the actress who plays Linda been in?" I couldn't think of a thing -- which is rather a shame because Angela Featherstone's excellent as the bitch-to-hate.



But the real reason I mention this is that right after The Wedding Singer ended, I flipped channels.

What did I find?

On the Sci-Fi channel, Caved In: Prehistoric Terror, an as-to-be-expected campy horror film -- starring Angela Featherstone and Christopher Atkins!

I shit you not.

Featherstone is still pretty; but Atkins isn't -- he's finally handsome!



Chris and I have finally grown up, I guess. And now I wouldn't mind some nude photos...

PS If you're still reading this, I will be (fingers crossed) moving this blog to its own domain & private hosting this weekend.

I do this because ever since the "blogger warning" has been issued to me (and yes, I take it personally), traffic (also affected by a lack of posting, I know) and stat tracking (which should not change with poor posting habits) has dropped drastically.

I honestly have no idea what fresh hell I shall discover with such a move, but, despite the possibly snarky sounding (yet accurate) statement that I owe you nothing as far as guaranteed postings, I do apologize in advance for any craziness which comes from 'moving' the blog.

I Think I Love You, Sadie, Sally, Whatever Your Name Was

Still fascinated by the Pink Pussycat, of which there is little on the tubes of Internets, I've become drawn to Sally Marr (aka Sally Marsalle and Boots Malloy), the former dean of the college of strip tease who was also Lenny Bruce's mother.

The only photo I could find of Marr was via TV Party, which had this clip of Marr from an early episode of Playboy After Dark (Playboy After Dark 2 is also available).

Virtually whenever anyone writes about Marr, and admittedly few do, they mention her 'bawdy' and 'outspoken' nature. The examples are that she's said to have 1) taken son Lenny to see burlesque shows when he was just 12 and 2) allowed him to read adult materials.

These two statements are repeated ad naseum, becoming one-liner legends I'm tempted to dismiss as being copied one from the other in a strange daisy-chain of cut-and-paste -- but I won't. For while those statements are repeated at a frequency worthy of dismissal (further penalized by the blandness that only an absence of documentation coupled with a lack of description can provide) they also represent something else.

First looking at the context of the statements, the on-one-hand 'credit' (these experiences creating the comedian's successful act) and on-the-other-hand mention (a nod to the bizarre foreshadowing the comedian's doomed life), points to the question of Marr's fitness for motherhood. Because moms cannot be sexual or sex positive without damaging herself and her children, her parenting is so unorthodox that no further explanation is deemed necessary.

For the record, I snort & chafe at such beliefs.

In Seriously Funny, by Gerald Nachman, there seems to be some discrepancy over Sally's literal mothering -- some claiming that she was rarely around for Lenny between the ages of 8 to 17. Surely at odds with the stories of how the 12 year old was watching the burlesque shows him mom emceed; make up your minds, people.

(And, speaking of such things again, it should also be noted that at burlesque shows in those days, no strippers went nude -- it was an art form of tease and humor. While I cannot say just what 'adult materials' Bruce had, let alone which momma Marr allowed him to have, we cannot ignore that while complete nudity and even penetration porn may have existed, Marr herself is to have said, "A woman's best weapon is a man's imagination." In that case, it's pretty clear that Marr knew that a g-string dollar was proffered for the teasing suggestion, not any actual delivery.)

Many go further and seem to seek to mar Marr's reputation by depicting her not only as morally questionable, but as opportunistic as well. They mention how she dared to enjoy being famous as Lenny Bruce's Mom; ignoring the fact that Lenny's big break, the gig at Ann's 440 where Hugh Hefner spotted him, wouldn't have happened had Sally not told the manager of Ann's 440 not to hire herself but her son. They mention how she sought Lenny's limelight, even milking it after he was dead; but side-step Marr's willing assistance & support (including financial) to other comedians. (She is credited for spotting the talents Cheech & Chong, Sam Kinison, and others.)

What's really telling about all of this is the irony. While they are busy depicting Sally Marr this way, the truth is seen: It is they who are only interested in Lenny Bruce, and Marr for her relationship with him.

Now there's some serious projection.

Little else of Marr's own life is mentioned. There's this bit in The Haunted Smile: The Story of Jewish Comedians in America, by Lawrence J. Epstein:

Born Sadie Kitchenberg, Marr had, at age twelve, been a contestant in a beauty contest judged by Rudolph Valentino. She was offered a job on the basis of her provacative performance, but her father refused to let her accept it. She began dancing, winning a variety of contests, giving dance lessons, and always looking to perform.

During World War II, with her son Lenny off in the navy and her husband long gone, Marr worked in bars an an emcee. Audiences responded well to her slightly off-color jokes, and eventually she moved on to larger comedy clubs. When her career waned, Marr transferred her show business ambitions to her son, becoming Lenny's coach and number-one fan, in the tradition of Sadie Berle and Minnie Marx.

Such intriguing brief hints at Marr's life before motherhood -- of her having a life before and outside of being the comedian's mother... I drool from my aroused organ (my brain; sheesh, you're smutty).

Even if she wasn't going to ever win any awards for World's Most Traditional Mother (and who the hell wants that honor?!), even if she was thrilled to bask in Lenny's fame, even if you don't like her -- I do.

I'm intrigued by this woman who impressed Valentino, who taught girls (of all ages & sorts) to dance (all sorts of dances), who understood seduction, who played with risque humor, who not only raised a son so funny & wise but got his humor too. It's her biography I want to read.

And if you've got any more info about Sally Marr, any objects & photos etc., no matter what name she's billed as, please share!

Halloween Heartbeats For The Bran Castle

Bran Castle, built in the 14th century as a fortress to protect against the invading Ottoman Turks, was home to the Romanian royal family from the 1920s until the communist regime confiscated it in 1948. At the end of communist rule in the 1980's, Bran Castle was restored, dubbed "Dracula's Castle," and thus became a popular tourist attraction, with some 450,000 people visiting the castle each year.

While Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia, aka "Vlad the Impaler", may or may not have ever stayed at Bran Castle, the Transylvanian castle did inspire Bram Stoker's classic 1897 novel Dracula -- and apparently that is enough for millions of people.

Me? I'm not such a fan of horror & blood. But I am a lover of affairs of the heart & hearts themselves... beating with life they literally keep the beat of our lives, turning the rapid pulse of emotion into the racing hearts of passion and then the heated pumping of erotic acts... and how the heart stills with emotional too, be it the skip at romantic introduction or the pause when the heart is broken... I even love them long after they've stopped beating. So, I'd still go see the Bran Castle -- but not for Dracula; I'd go for Queen Marie of Romania.

While married to Ferdinand of Romania, Marie not only had an affair with Lieutenant Zixi Cantacuzene which produced a child "disappeared from history"; a longer affair with Barbu Ştirbey which produced at least one son, Prince Mircea, and possibly one daughter, Princess Ileana; but Princess Maria (called Mignon) might have been the daughter of Grand Duke Boris Vladimirovich of Russia.

Certainly all of this had to have affected Marie's thinking regarding her son, King Carol II, and his relationship with Magda Lupescu -- first his mistress, and this his wife after his abdication -- but she publicly stated he had "sinned grievously". The irony seems to have been lost to Marie who only became further estranged from her son.

All such juicy things to further investigate...

And then there's this bit: Queen Marie made arrangements in her will for her heart to be kept in a cloister at the Balchik Palace -- her son Carol II dutifully carried out the request.



In 1940 her heart was transferred to the chapel at Bran Castle (the casket with Queen Marie's heart has since been moved to National History Museum of Romania in Bucharest).

Who doesn't want to pilgrimage to this woman's home?

If that's not enough to seduce you to, how about this quote from Queen Marie regarding a proselytizer:

I have met ..... I did not like him. He seemed to me to be a snob. He spoke of God as if He were the oldest title in the Almanach de Gotha. And all that business about telling one's sins in public -- He wanted me ... me ... to get up before my children and confess everything I had ever done! It is spiritual nudism! Ça se ne fait pas.

(From All I Could Never Be, by Beverley Nichols.)

In 2005, the Romanian government passed a law allowing restitution claims on properties seized by the Communist government of Romania in 1948. It was due to this law that, in 2006, the Romanian government awarded ownership of Bran Castle to the son and heir of Princess Ileana, Archduke Dominic of Austria, Prince of Tuscany, known as Dominic von Habsburg -- then a 68-year-old New York architect.

Because of Princess Ileana's questionable lineage, among other things, the property distribution was challenged; but as Queen Marie herself named Ileana as the one to inherit Bran Castle, the Constitutional Court of Romania and an investigation commission of the Romanian government reaffirmed the validity & legality of the restitution procedures used and in December 2007 issued confirmation that the restitution to Ileana's son, von Habsburg, was made in full compliance with the law.

According to the contract signed when Bran castle was returned, the government pays rent to von Habsburg for the right to run the castle as a museum (including charging admission) for three years. That period ends in 2009 and full rights to the castle & property will then transfer to von Habsburg.

Having no experience with running a museum, von Habsburg and his family have put the castle up for sale to those "who will treat the property and its history with appropriate respect."

I'm not sure my lusty love of history would meet approval; but as Bran Castle is expected to fetch over $135 million, I don't suppose I could afford it anyway.

Women Who Collect Porn, Erotica & Sex History

Gracie on the Sisterhood Of Smut Collectors:

Many women are searching for the answers to what it means to be female, historically and right this minute, and how we feel about that ~ and we're using porn & erotic materials to do it.

...No matter who the body before us belongs to, it becomes our own. That could be our tits, our ass, our labia spread wide open like a briefcase on his desk. We could be the whipper or the whipee. Just how do we feel about all that?

Image via my Paramount Folder.

Horny For Nostalgia

Gracie reviewed a retro lingerie fetish film and it got her thinking about the fashions she wore in the 80's and why viewing 80's porn doesn't turn her on with nostalgia:

Simply watching 80's porn won't do that for me because for the most part the fashions shown rarely reflect "me" at that time. And, no, I didn't really watch porn in the 80's. Aside from a few views for a fellow I was dating, I had no need to watch it.

She brings up a few points which were likely brewing in my subconscious... Like how much do things like clothing & setting affect my viewing or porn?

I know when I laugh out loud & become snark-master rather than slipping my hand in my panties; but what about more subtle things, like when I want to connect to the time and place? I know I can't really relax into arousal with erotica so poorly written that a character has a third hand reaching for her heaving bosom, or when his shorts inexplicably find themselves back on again. Like readers of historical fiction who freak when there's a car being driven on roads before Queen Victoria's birth, I can't help but be annoyed by those things -- and such annoyances interfere with my willing suspension of disbelief.

Now, we all know porn by & large offers little in the way of practicality & accuracy, but we do have to find something to relate to. So what happens when you are turning to porn for a sense of nostalgia? Surely porn can offer the fantasy of your own yesteryear, right?

But what Gracie says is that she's yet to find porn that can transport her back to her youth, her "glory days", because none seems to capture or reflect the fashions & settings of her at that time.

Is that too much to expect from porn?

Maybe; but it still raises some good questions, if not libidos horny for nostalgia.

It makes me wonder what & who the fashions in porn reflect today... What other elements in porn might be missing which renders porn non-relatable... Is this what makes amateur porn so appealing ~ that we see ourselves in those clothes, those situations and so are more responsive?

I don't know. I'm still looking through porn and thinking about all this. Of course I'm also still just looking at porn for the fuck of it too; so it may be awhile before I get any closer to those answers.

Me too. *wink* But now I have another excuse to look at more of it.

Add your thoughts to the conversation.

Not Even The Ankh Can Save It

It might delight you to know that I'm a freak for ancient Egyptian history -- and I say 'freak' because any anthropologist, archaeologist, or historian will tell you that Egyptology draws the freakiest of all persons, making Egyptologists the butt of all jokes.

My affection for such study began in childhood, followed me through college course selection, and remains with me today. Back in 1973 I was an ankh obsessed girl -- earrings, bracelets, chokers, you name it, I was covered in it -- so it would have thrilled me then to have discovered The Coven, "A sensational novel of Washington intrigue and witchcraft by Watergate conspirator E. Howard Hunt writing as David St. John" (Fawcett Crest, printed October, 1973).

The back of the book, sans mention of ankh, would still have held promise to a young me who fancied romantic notions of secret sects:

WHO WAS
ANDREE LESCAULT?

No one really knew much about the murdered songstress except that she had been extraordinarily beautiful, that her singing cast a strange spell over all who listened, and that even sophisticated Washington had fallen victim to that spell. There was talk that some of her tribal chants were really secret rites. There was also talk that a certain powerful and handsome senator with presidential ambitions had a special interest in her. A very special interest.

Jonathan Gault found that out when they summoned him to find her murderer. He had also heard Andree sing and felt the presence of something macabre and evil...

The victim, Lescaunt, was more than an Afro-French chanteuse; the mystical ankh that she and most of her musical followers wore leads the investigation into a cult, of course.

From page 45:

Out of delicacy or ignorance the jeweler hadn't told Ellen a few other details about the Ankh that I was able to learn at the Georgetown Library. The basic form was an oval atop a tau cross. A magical symbol, at its most elemental level it represented a human being. Antedating Christianity, it was believed a precursor of the crucifix. And its sexual significance was explicit. According to Dioscurian legend the Ankh established both the rising and falling currents of life. The symbol abounded on the tomb of Tutankhamon, even as filigree design in the pharaoh's funerary furniture. And wherever it was displayed it signified inexhaustible, all-prevailing potency.

The Ankh. The ansate or handled cross.

An amulet, periapt, magic charm; a talisman for those it touched. Andree Lescaut had worn it, and her enthusiasts as well. Was it a recognition sign among members of some latter-day Egyptian secret society, devotees of a cult? Dedicated to what? African Music?

Aside from the fact that the author stretched his word-count with the behavior of a thesaurus, what else do we learn...

• That black is beautiful, baby -- so long as it comes hither via France.
• That religious things predating Christianity are not only secretive & sexual, but murderous -- especially if linked to another culture's music.

While my thirteen year old girl's loins flush with heat at such simple sentences as "And its sexual significance was explicit", even then I was disappointed that such a ripe sentence not only bore no fruit but, lacking any attempt at back-up, had apparently sprung from nothing more than the author's mind; just another diversionary perversion.

The rest of the novel with Gault as its aggressive and sexually swaggering male lead reads like classic pulp detective fiction, albeit there are a few timely updates such as the reference to Gault's equally aggressive and sexually swaggering female gal pal, Gina. Case in point, this example from page 47:

[Gina] leaned back against the sofa and stretched, catlike. "I can think of things even more interesting--but there I go, seducing you again."

"Women's Lib influence. Equal rights for females."

Yeah, having the ERA referenced by some white male Nixon punk as a means to some sexually aggressive tail is exactly what I enjoy. Not.

In fact, there's really nothing to please me in this book -- not even the romantic ankh loving girl of my youth would have been satisfied with the shoddy writing, stock characters, fade-to-black sex scenes, the poor diversionary perversion of the Ankh, the thinly veiled stabs at Kennedy & youth culture, or anything else in this book. It could have been a sinfully good bit of escapism, as many pulps are, but it missed the mark.

(Curt Purcell at The Groovy Age Of Horror has another review of the book, in case you should want to hear more.)

When discussing Hunt's books, (too) many folks focus on his Washington & CIA experiences, saying, as Tim Weiner at the NY Times did upon Hunt's death, that, "His works followed a formula of sex and intrigue but offered flashes of insight." Poo. That's people wishing to legitimize poor books based on the employ of the author -- when they can't boost the written work any other way.

So why give it so much space here at SPS?

Well, what is rather interesting about The Coven is its author, E. Howard Hunt.

Yeah, yeah, everybody knows that the guy was a criminal. But wanna know what else is creepy? His son's own description of him.

When Hunt died in January of 2007, his son, David Hunt, celebrated the "good to know not everyone thought of my father as evil" sentiments by posting comments to this post about his father's books. When one comment-leaver said, "I have a copy of Stranger in Town, 1st ed., 1947, signed “Howard Hunt”, and inscribed “For Mary with love Howie” - Any idea who Mary is?", David replied:

I would imagine Mary was probably a romantic interest. Only his closest friends called him Howie. My father was quite a playboy back in the day. Being a writer, musician and secret agent he had his pick. He was a smooth operator for sure. We did have a nanny named Mary Trainer for many years in Japan and Spain but I doubt he would use “Howie” when signing something for someone in his employ

Here poor naive David waxes nostalgic on his pa's hero status as a sexual predator, yet manages to turn a blind eye to the possibility of the smooth operator's ability to bonk the nanny.

I don't know the nanny in question or even anything about her, but it seems to me that a playboyesque spy with a penchant for extramarital activities would certainly have the potential to at least be on friendly enough terms with the female help to sign a copy of his book with his nickname.

Reading and rereading David's comment, it sure sounds like married daddy was having affairs... Well, that was his due as a man with "his pick" of women, right?

Or maybe the son just likes to imagine his father as something better than he was, more like the leads in the novels... Triumphing in sexual conquest is the male ideal -- as long as it's not with the nanny.

Do I believe E. Howard Hunt was a playboy & a smooth operator?

I'd say he'd have to be better at that than he was as an author.

Fanny Brice's Baby Snooks

It should be noted that I believe the song that Fanny Brice is said to have sang in the 1939 article by James Street was actually Three Little Fishes (Itty Bitty Poo), a "Southern children's song" written in 1939 by Josephine Judson Carringer.

According to this article, Josephine Judson Carringer was musically gifted, highly intelligent, ad entered college when she was 16 yrs old. She wrote Three Little Fishes with Betty Lynn Kirk, her sorority sister at the University of Tennessee in the late 1930s. They then sold the song for $200 and Saxie Dowell adapted the lyrics and music into the piece that became a number one hit in 1939 as performed by the Kay Kyser orchestra with Ish KaBibble singing.

According to Time, June 19, 1939, "Saxie Dowell recently heard, in the South, an old nursery tune called Down in de Meddy. He thought it mighty cute." We can't blame Saxie for the giant PR machine which would deny buying music (especially for a mighty cute old nursery rhyme song), and so we can likely believe the rest:

The result was published last April by Santly-Joy-Select, Inc., which got out The Music Goes 'Round and 'Round and admits to liking "crazy things." Under its title Three Little Fishies, Saxie Dowell's song last week had set something of a current record by leading the field in sheet music sales for a month.

Three Little Fishies has verses which can be sung either in English (Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool) or in "fish talk" (Down in de meddy in a ITTY BITTY POO). The chorus can be sung only one way: Boop boop dittem dattem whattem Chu! The song, likely to cause reverse peristalsis in fastidious stomachs, is all about some "itty fitties" who "fam and dey fam" until they "taw a TARK!" (shark). Den dey fam back to deir poo. The publishers, wary of overplugging Three Little Fishies, withheld it from all but a few big orchestral names—Hal Kemp, Guy Lombardo, Kay Kyser, Paul Whiteman, each of whom recorded it. The song was plugged on the radio by Mildred Bailey, Fannie Brice, Judy Starr. Along with the itty fitties, fat Saxie Dowell fam into such fame that he is now thinking of leaving Hal Kemp and starting a band of his own.

The song is a relative childhood classic -- that is to say, if you had a corny family like mine, you heard your relatives sing it. Often. You may have even heard Madonna and Rosie O'Donell perform a cover of the tune.

Now, you might be wondering why I'd be taking so much time to discuss a cute old kids' song here at SPS. Well, the idea of Baby Snooks, the bratty character played by Fanny Brice fascinates me.


It plays well-enough on the Baby Snook radio shows but, as Brice was fond of dressing & behaving 'in character', once you can see as well as hear it takes on other elements.

Putting a grown woman in little-girl-garb may have it's humorous elements, but it also says something about power & dominance -- and you don't have to be a perv to see it. Little girls are innocence, but they are also property; they belong to daddy. Short baby-doll dresses, oh-so fashionable these days, communicate these things -- innocence and access -- which is why I don't own a single one of those monstrosities.

Having a bratty girl-child mouth-off to her master may be cute, but underneath it all lies -- as sure as those ruffled panties -- the idea that she will eventually heel and heed her master. Or, if she does not, then he is less-than-a-man and plays cuckhold to her charms. Sure, all this can only make it funnier; but did they get it?

Without Brice & Snooks, we likely wouldn't have had Lily Tomlin's Edith Ann on Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In -- but there's a huge difference between the two.


Tomlin's Edith Ann appeared alone in her giant rocking chair where she told stories about her family & dog. Having her be alone could have been a choice to deal with scale; but even so, simply being alone meant Edith Ann was not (as) eroticized.


Baby Snooks, by comparison, not only acted with others but interacted physically with them, drawing in all those adult contexts. There is a large difference between discussing a punishment, a la Edith Ann, and showing a grown woman dressed as a child over the knee of her daddy figure like Baby Snooks; the image has erotically charged elements.


At the base of this humor is prettified misogyny &/or glorified cuckholding. It's all good & fine for adult role-play sex-scenarios, really; but as entertainment one really ought to be aware that's what they are enjoying.

Baby Snooks (with Hanley Stafford as "Daddy") was performed on television only once (and this was Brice's only TV appearance too), on CBS-TV's Popsicle Parade of Stars in 1950 (one year prior to Brice's death). Entertainment folks document Brice's height &/or age as the reason for its failure, and Brice herself is said to have admitted that the character of Baby Snooks just didn't work properly when seen... But come on!

This wasn't the first time Baby Snooks had appeared before people. Baby Snooks was even in Judy Garland's Everybody Sing (1938) prior to radio success.



While Brice & Garland are wonderfully funny in that scene, this was not the usual Baby Snooks routine. Baby Snooks was built on the annoying relationship with her father and, sometimes, other men. The Baby Snooks character had been preformed live on stage for years and, height of male actors aside, there clearly were other issues at work here.


In his book Fanny Brice, Herbert G. Goldman writes of a Baby Snooks performance with Bob Hope (links again added by SPS):

Fanny, who rejoined the Follies at the Winter Garden, was still not in the best of health, and had to clear her throat in her Snooks scene Hope. "That's my cold clearing up," she ad-libbed at one point.

"I thought you were just oversexed," was Bob Hope's quick reply. The line stayed in.

Yeah. No wonder it just didn't work properly on television.

I wonder just what it is that people were thinking about Baby Snooks at the time.

You can download 10 Baby Snooks shows from me for just $3.

Note: Gone Fishing (06/01/1939) & Baby Fish Story (04/11/1940) have quite a bit of similar content for a woman who eschewed rehearsals, saying she wanted to give performances a spontaneity and unpredictability that would be lost with an over-familiarity with the lines and other players. That could just be the writers milking their own jokes. What do you notice about the shows?

On The Giantess Fantasy

Dr. Jane Vargas, aka The Panty Mistress, on the subject of giantess fantasies:

The bottom line of all these themes is the intimidating / overwhelming / frightening nature of women's sexuality for some men. Fear often ignites a sexual response. (I remember being reprimanded at work when I was 25 and nearly having an orgasm as I listened to my superior dress me down.)

And women are the ultimate scary creation because they're so unassuming. Yes, they look soft and speak with a lilt. They nurture and comfort. But you'd do well to worry, buster. Women's capacity for god-knows-how-many orgasms ... the unknowable how-to-score with women that all men must somehow learn, and the classic, now-cliched-but-still-asked -- and unanswered -- question looms and dooms so many men: "What do women want?" ...

My absolute favorite find this morning was "Giantess Ultimate (Got Milk?)." (It's posted below.) A beautiful woman in a milk ad on a billboard comes off the billboard in the middle of the night and teases and toys with a man nearby who was admiring her two-dimensional beauty. Once she's real, though, his lust mixes with fear (intensifying his lust).

He fearfully claims the gorgeous, giant, sexual woman will "corrupt the whole city of two million people" if she wanders into the town nearby. She does so anyway, him in tow. Along the way she teaes him, "Does it bother you to be so small?" and then derides him, "Poor little thing, poor little insect."

He runs from her. She coos, "I won't hurt you." She captures him. "You're so warm," he says softly. So touching. To which she responds, "I'm going to eat you." He claims her perfume is intoxicating him; he's losing control, succumbing (so as not to have to take responsibility for his actions). He claims she's taking advantage of him because she's "so big." The old she-made-me-do-it.

Substitute "women's sexuality" for the beautiful blonde and you have one of the greatest unspoken fears amongst many men: women's sexuality. Unspoken - but not undepicted. Enter, the giantess fantasy.

Here's the video -- but don't forget to read the rest of her post for the 5 themes in giantess fantasies.



Image credits: Attack of the 50 Foot Woman film poster. (Now if you see one posted in your pal's apartment, will you think of him differently? *wink*)

Sanity In Art Circa 1936 (Or, Let's Hate Modernism)

Inside the Parmount folder I found pages 5-8 of The Milwaukee Journal from Sunday, August 9, 1936. The pages appear to be from the "art" section, with lots of interesting bits on what was happening in arts at the time. None, perhaps, more interesting to me than this article, Mrs. Logan, Chicago Art Patron, Writes Book Against Modernism, which was published on page 6.



It's so grand, I have to type it all out -- giving you no reason not to read it:

Mrs. Frank G. Logan, Chicago, originator of the now nation-wide Sanity in Art movement, has announced that she will carry her fight against "modern, moronic grotesqueries" right into the American home.

Plan citizens of this country, accustomed to talking their art as the museums hand it to them, will become conscious of the fraud that is being perpetrated against them, says Mrs. Logan, and "sweep the rubbish from the galleries."

Mrs. Logan, whose state of nerves over art followed a predominantly modern exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago last winter, is the wife of an institute trustee and donor of the Logan prizes and many other art awards, as well as a generous contributor to the institute.

Calls It Junk

"Even a kitchen calendar can be an inspiration to the housewife if it shows a reproduction of one of the old masters," Mrs. Logan said as she sat in her drawing room facing a Rembrandt and surrounded by a collection including Corot, Rousseau, Van Dyck, Seyffert, Jacques and Hoppner.

"If everyone surrounded himself with copies of our beloved old masters--which we can get for 50 cents--the people would become imbued with a new appreciation of art and would not tolerate the miserable junk some of our museums are showing and calling modern art."

Turner, Ruebns, Innes, and El Greco were among those Mrs. Logan listed for reproduction on calendars and in inexpensive prints to help restore sanity in art judgment to housewives. In course of time the housewife is able to add to the cultural objects in her home in a manner which will create in her children the desire for the better things in life, according to Mrs. Logan.

A Forthcoming Book

While emphasizing that she is in no sense a dictator and wants only to lead people to their best judgment, Mrs. Logan said she was writing a book, also to be called "Sanity in Art," which she hopes will show everybody the folly of modernism.

"I'm deliberately making it an inexpensive book," she said, "so that everyone can have it. I shall use 30 cuts to contrast what is offensive and ridiculous in modern art with the work of real masters, old and new."

Mrs. Logan, who led a fight which resulted in officials in the Art Institute of Chicago bringing "song of the Lark" out of the dusty basement, at least for a time, protested that she is not advocating "mere prettiness which soon palls, but the beauty of form, whether it be of nature of human."

The crusade is carried over the radio and by mail by Mrs. Logan. Each day brings her a gratifying packet of fan mail. Particularly active branch chapters have been formed in Kansas City, Pittsburgh, Greenwich, Conn., and Minneapolis, she said.

Mrs. Logan was Josephine Hancock Logan, the daughter of Col. John Lane Hancock (1812-1883), a colonel in the Civil War who later established the largest meatpacking house in Chicago who went on to serve as president of the Chicago Board of Trade, and the wife of Frank Granger Logan, founder of the brokerage house of Logan & Bryan. She is credited as having written books of verse, including Lights and Shadows and Heights and Depths, and "many lyrics including a Negro monolog entitled Longing." But it's the Sanity in Art movement for which Mrs. Logan is (if at all) remembered.

The Sanity in Art movement spread to more locations than noted in The Milwaukee Journal article. In this 1940 Time article article the leader of the Boston branch, Margaret Fitzhugh Browne -- called "the Society's old-maid president" -- is quoted as saying, "[The Picasso show] is an exhibition of crazy stuff. People who went to the show flocked to join the Society for Sanity in Art."

I think this says plenty about the group's philosophy and just who would join -- as well as Time's stance on modernism, despite loud out-burst from 'the public' against it.

However, if you think it was a Picasso which had Josephine Logan's panties in a bunch, it wasn't. Her bloomers became bunched when the Chicago Art Institute gave the Logan prize to Doris Lee's Thanksgiving in 1935; Mrs. Logan was so miffed that she formed an official society, complete with "Inc." and the book, as you've read, was part of the gospel.



In Time's review, they quote Logan from her book Sanity in Art:

Sanity in Art means soundness, rationalism, a correct integration of the art work itself in accordance with some internal logic. We know sanity is often difficult to define, and we also know insanity is often apparent at a glance. ... I have been called an iconoclast, and indeed I am one, in that I am trying to destroy false gods that have been forced upon us in the museums.

I find her statements that the false gods of modernism would be forced upon "us" very intriguing... Certainly her husband had some pull (or push) at the Chicago museum, yet she felt that the art was foisted upon museums. An odd statement as museums are seen (and usually have been seen) as the arbitrators of taste and 'what is art'; gate-keepers who dictate or bestow than those foisted-up or dictated to. Perhaps Mrs. Logan chafed at the younger folks who made more decisions regarding these matters (employees and younger trustees vs. old men like her husband). Or perhaps Mrs. Frank G. Logan chafed at being a woman with no say -- other than to push Mr. Logan, who was, by all accounts at this time anyway, a rather retiring gentleman. But in any case, Josephine, who has more influence than most, feels that 'someone' is duping 'us'. It's curious and makes me wish for her journals & diaries... Perhaps the old grand dame had taken young artists under her wing too *wink*

Back to what we do know.

The Society for Sanity in Art was, to quote Ask Art, "opposed to all forms of modernism, including abstract expressionism, surrealism, and many other changes going on in the world at that time."

I think it's important to note that indeed, the times, they were a-changin' and Mrs. Logan, then approximately 73, wasn't the only one resisting. As noted in the introduction to Women Building Chicago 1790-1990: A Biographical Dictionary, edited by Rima Lunin Schultz and Adele Hast (2001), published at the Chicago History Fair site, there were lots of responses to the changing times. Here's a bit from the book's introduction on the Chicago art scene at the time :

In the art world, conservatives split from the Chicago Society of Artists and formed a new organization, the Association of Chicago Painters and Sculptors, leaving the modernist core to run the Chicago Society of Artists. Josephine Logan's Sanity in Art organization, founded in 1936, attacked the aesthetics of modernism; Eleanor Jewett, art critic for the Chicago Tribune, shared Logan's point of view and labeled the works of Paul Cezanne, Paul Gauguin, and Vincent van Gogh brutal, primitive, and childish.

An example of Josephine Logan's power (and her own primitive & childish charm) is told in the following story of when the Chicago Art Institute opened its 47th annual show in 1936:

Last week's Chicago Art Institute show carefully avoided any of the extreme schools of U. S. painting, was described by Chicago's ablest critic, Clarence Joseph Bulliet (Chicago Daily News), as "a sedate show of practically unrelieved conservatism." The jury for painting-Edmund Archer, John Steuart Curry, Jerry Farnsworth, Meyric Rogers, Thomas Tallmadge-salved its artistic conscience by giving Mrs. Logan's prize to an unexceptionable if uninspired studio nude entitled Olympia, by capable, hard-working Robert Philipp of Manhattan.

Late in the afternoon day before the show opened, Mrs. Logan, accompanied by Chicago Tribune Critic Eleanor Jewett, arrived at the museum. Director Robert B. Harshe rushed forward hastily, conducted his patron to the prizewinning Olympia.

"Do you approve, Mrs. Logan? Do you approve?'' he cried anxiously.

"Yes," said Mrs. Logan, "I approve. It is very sweet."

Sweeping through the rest of the gallery, Mrs. Logan looked with marked disfavor on another prizewinner, Earthquake by Jon Corbino, showing a sleeping family on the second floor of a collapsing barn above a group of frightened horses.

"And why, Mr. Harshe," asked she, "should a thing like that be given a prize?" Hanging next to the prizewinning earthquake was a picture by Jim Lee of two amiable Japanese moppets reading a book. As a rebuke. Mrs. Logan bought it.

I cannot find images of Earthquake, nor of the Jim Lee work Logan purchased; but did find the "uninspired studio nude" Olympia by Robert Philipp.



I don't think needs only to rely on Time's characterization that Logan was being a cheeky-little-monkey, purchasing Lee's work to rebuke the award-winning Corbino; I can think of numerous occasions when I've seen such thing.

While Sanity in Art has been called "an aesthetic 'Moral Majority'" * Logan and her ilk were not necessarily prudish when it came to nudity. Being lovers of the classics, they recognized "beauty of form, whether it be of nature of human" such as with Olympia. And even devout movement members who were artists, such as early Sanity in Art member Claudia M. Barkdull McKenzie, created nudes. This is the California painter's Floral Still life with Nude.




"Plump, round-faced Josephine Hancock Logan" not only founded the Society for Sanity in Art, Inc., but gave out its own Sanity in Art Awards. And in 1939 the society had its own first national exhibition at Chicago's Stevens Hotel. Of it, Time said:

Mrs. Logan turned up early, dressed in pink lace, pink gloves, diamond and emerald bracelets, a hat of feathers and flowers. While an eight-piece orchestra played her favorite tunes and she—befeathered, beflowered and bemused—sat humming them, a crowd, many of them oldsters, peered at 255 sane exhibits, murmured brightly: "Isn't it wonderful to see real painting again?" First of the eleven prizes went to Chauncey Ryder, 71, for a harmless landscape; other prizes to sound, conservative Frank W. Benson, 77, mountain-whittling Gutzon Borglum, 68. Herself a little dim about who had won the prizes, Donor Logan purred comfortably: "But they're all my old friends."

Time paints her as some ditzy matron of the arts, forcing me to wonder more about this woman who was so outraged at modernism that she had to start such a public campaign in her 70's. Just a photo would be nice at this point. *sigh*

I could not find any images of the Sanity in Art award, but here's a description from an auction catalog:

SOCIETY FOR SANITY IN ART AWARD MEDAL, 1937. 75.8mm. Bronze. Signed, "Mortens." (MACO) Lightly tarnished Unc. Obverse: SOCIETY FOR SANITY IN ART JOSEPHINE HANCOCK LOGAN FOUNDER around a high relief central bust of Mrs. Logan, looking very much like a wealthy dowager. The reverse features a deco style nude young woman seated above an inscription: SOCIETY FOR SANITY IN ART/ MEDAL/ AWARDED TO/ The medal is not awarded.

It would be easy to imply that Logan and others in the Sanity in Art movement were, well, 'nutty'. But you have to remember the context of time.

Logan and others in this movement had not only survived the great depression (and the Logans did so clearly with wealth & power intact), but they were the product of Victorian values -- and now they faced a changing world which demanded that they acquiesce & fade away.

The changes in art, museums replacing Rembrandts with Picassos, was not just a visual 'out with the old, in with the new' statement, a sign that power was shifting; it was much more than that.

Art was the way one expressed the grace of privilege, both by owning it and by being a patron. On a personal level, one worked hard to be able to afford real art. Such wealth and power had its public responsibility, namely to guard culture & extol values and art was one of the ways to do so. To stand by and watch masters -- or at least the space for their works -- be eviscerated by modernism was to watch one's lifetime (seemingly) become irrelevant and to have concern for the future. What would the values and art of those times be?

While it's easy to see that modernism did more than just survive, and the researcher in me says to let the documentation of the artists Mrs. Logan speak to their own longevity & popularity (especially when compared to the longevity & popularity of those she eschewed), I feel it only fair to state that Mrs. Logan's concerns, the ideals of the Sanity in Art movement, show up continually in any matter of social change -- including reactions to art which reflects such things.

Josephine Hancock Logan passed away in November of 1943 at the age of 81. Her obit notes that she had "dedicated a society for "Sanity in Art" to the proposition that "The 'Cuckoo of Publicity' has laid the egg of a new 'dodo bird' in the hard nest of art," thereafter purred contentedly at her own safe & sane exhibits," and tacks-on a brief mention that she was also co-founder of the American College of Surgeons.

Not long after her passing, the Art Institute of Chicago began used the Logan name to reward just the sort of modern works that Josephine loathed.

It is not clear just what the 'Mr. and Mrs. Frank G. Logan Purchase Prize' indicates -- awards, funds, both? -- for the "Purchase Prize" is relegated to a single line associated with specific objects in the collection.

Worse yet, the Logans are ignored on the museum's website entirely.

Since Frank Granger Logan served for more than 50 years on the institution's board, started the Chicago Art Institute's awards, and became honorary president, it seems only decent to acknowledge him. And while Josephine Hancock Logan's legacy may seem more murky in its qualities, it's clear that she was a passionate supporter of the arts. Her reaction to modernism is a part of art history & should be well documented.

The absence is a modern, moronic grotesquery.


It should be clear by now, that if you have any knowledge to add to the story of Josephine Hancock Logan I'd love to hear it. I'm also interested in any papers, books, objects of hers (I can't pay much, but I'll take good care of them!)

Additional stray thoughts...

I could find no references to any radio shows by Mrs. Logan &/or Sanity in Art; but I'll keep looking.

The 'masters on calendars and other inexpensive prints' idea would have been deemed kitsch by Gillo Dorfles. I'm not sure this qualifies as irony, but it bears noting.

* In her book, My Love Affair with Modern Art, Katharine Kuh wrote this of the Sanity in Art movement:

Sanity in Art was like an aesthetic "Moral Majority." It was a rabid movement of art vigilantes with its objective to have the most reactionary art, and only American art at that, shown, bought, or collected in Chicago and the rest of the Midwest. In turn, the group was intent on eliminating the practice of modernism -- any deviation from its rigid provincial code attracted explosive verbal onslaughts. In my case, the attacks were physically threatening as well, as when someone smashed the glass window of the gallery to register disapproval of an exhibition of Joan Miro.

Kuh says the organization was "unique to Chicago", which is not true; but it's her experience as gallery owner which counts here. Of course, Kuh herself is controversial too; but that's for another time.

Marquee De Sade

Guy de Maupassant's The Private Affairs of Bel Ami is a film I've never seen (Bosley Crowther's review in The New York Times (June 16, 1947) was hardly kind; but it the film seems to have fans today, such as the folks at the Harvard Film Archive), but it matters not for my discussion of the film's posters/marketing materials, one of which I glimpsed at an auction recently.

These are examples I found on the web, the black & white looking like what I had briefly seen:



There were apparently (at least) two versions, each depicting a young Angela Lansbury fixed as firmly as a Chihuahua to a guest's leg (if not actually humping it), in desperate attempt to keep her man. This is as dramatic as film posters should be, and apparently in keeping with the story. But...

It's the taglines which draw my interest:

"All women take to men who have the appearance of wickedness"

"Are women too weak to be wicked?"

I suppose it's unfair to rile at such stereotypes when you have not seen the film nor read the novel, but from all accounts the story is that of a man who eschews love for power, willing to step on & then over women to get what he professes to want, which is money & social standing. How then does one feel free to label all women as drawn to the appearances of wickedness, an entire gender as weak? Wouldn't it be more fair to make the judgments about the man himself? Or at least use the word "some".

"It's to sell movie tickets," you say. But that's the part that bothers me.

If you want those who see the posters and read the ads to buy a ticket, you entice and seduce, not libel and offend -- or at least you do for an entertaining film, not a activist documentary. And so the point is that the taglines were not just accepting of such beliefs, but titillating -- indeed glorifying -- victimization, complete with damn-near titular advice on how to victimize women by exploiting the general gender gaffe.

The Offensive Breast

Pop Tart at KKC sent me these scans, marked pages from 1954's The Family Physician, by Dr. Herman Pomeranz & Dr. Irvin S. Koll. She knew I'd have much to say about them.

The defacement begins with the combating cancer breast exams.



An "X" is placed over each breast -- nude breasts sans nipples, because nipples cannot be seen even in medical books. They must only be found in men's mags and National Geographic; a rule that still applies today, no matter how antiquated and foolish.

The Xs continue throughout the fitness pages too -- but you'll notice that the naked men in exercise diapers are free of inked-x-comments.




This leads me to conclude that the person who inked judgment was a girl, approximately 12 years of age.

This is an age where young girls are rather modest & uncomfortable with nudity and the sexual life of the female form. Even if the photos are not intended to be sexual she feels it -- like the photos of naked pygmies young boys masturbated to in National Geographic magazines, she is painfully aware. The X marks the spot where she is uncomfortable.

It's either that, or the work of a misogynist male. And I don't like to think about that.

Women As Stocking Victims

Growing up, my dad used to make jokes about luring girls with the offer of nylons. He still does, honestly.

It's a bit creepy -- but less creepy than jokes about little girls and candy, that's for sure; but if you don't know the history of nylons, you wouldn't quite get his jokes. (Admittedly, such knowledge would only help you understand his nylon jokes; Dad's other jokes could still be murky.)

Thankfully, my parents both were not only quite the history lovers but storytellers too, so I knew the score -- both in terms of the "Nylon Mania" & "Stocking Panic" and how my dad joked about hoping to score.

The mocking of women's love of stockings was a prevalent theme in many WWII home front publications, and the use of nylons to lure women was humor oft-used in men's mags -- sadly, none are at my fingertips now (searched-for things rarely appear when desired; I shall post them as I find them).


Luring women at home and abroad with nylons and candy bars was the "come up and see my etchings" of its time, and lived on in memory far longer as a euphemism, even when not fully understood.

Of course, the panic of nylon stockings was more than a joke. As noted in the history piece at SK, the real crimes took place as people tried to exploit the power of "Stocking Panic." OrangeCat at Flickr transcribed this 1945 Readers Digest article on the subject:

Bootleg Nylons
Readers Digest, February 1945

Watch out for the fellow who offers to sell you "nylon" hosiery! There isn't any.

No mere man can fully understand the power of nylon stockings over women's minds, hearts, and consciences. But a lot of men are busy exploiting this feminine weakness.

Foremost example: Uncle Sam. The only legitimate purchaser of nylon hosiery in the world is the U.S. Government. No, the stockings aren't "sent to Iceland on lend-lease," as reported in a silly story that was repeated on the floor of Congress. They travel a much more devious route.

Our secret agents overseas discovered that a half dozen pairs of sheer nylons would buy more information from certain mysterious women in Europe and North Africa than a fistful of money. After all, what could the ladies buy with money in the empty shops of the Old World? So several large hosiery mills, which had made no nylons since Pearl Harbor, received substantial orders from Washington; the necessary yarn, they were informed, would be available. Pleasantly surprised, they turned out the merchandise -- the only nylons legitimately manufactured in years.

Nevertheless, enough American women want nylon stockings at any price, in contempt of law, and with callous indifference to our soldiers' needs for other nylon goods, to support a sizable black market. It is some satisfaction to record that the black market operators give the women a merciless stinging.

Thirteen cases of raw nylon en route from the Du Pont factory in Martinsville, Va., to a parachute yarn plant in Winston-Salem, N.C., were stolen from a motor-freight terminal in Greensboro, N.C. Accepting the thin story that the nylon was salvage from a warehouse fire, two manufacturers made it up into hosiery. It was spread as far as possible by making the feet and tops of cotton. But these skimpy makeshift stockings sold readily for $5 a pair to bootleggers, who in turn got $10 a pair from customers, male and female, hexed by the magic word "nylon." The nylon yarn was worth $7800; it was made into $140,000 worth of stockings.

FBI and OPA agents arrested three men. One, a former official of a trucking company, was fined $5,000 and is serving a two-year prison term. The two hosiery mill men were fined $12,000 each and placed on 18 months' probation. The Government agents managed to seize 5,000 pairs of hose before they could be peddled. These, by court order, were sold at the OPA ceiling prime of $ 1.65 a pair in the office of the U.S. Marshal in Greensboro. The sale was to begin at ten o' clock in the morning. At 5 a.m. the queue began to form; when the doors opened, the line of women, four abreast, extended four city blocks. Half of them went away disappointed.

Much more intricate was another scheme for black market nylons. A silk mill in Pennsylvania got a contract to convert raw nylon into thread for glider towropes. Part of the raw nylon was systematically snitched, and accounted for in reports to the WPB as "spoilage." The "spoiled" nylon was transported to three hosiery mills whose owners were in the plot. When the FBI cracked down, it found 10,320 pairs of nylons in one warehouse, 6,500 unfinished pairs in another, enough thread to make 36,000 pairs more. Four men were indicted.

Most patrons of the nylon black market are stung in two ways: they pay fantastic prices and they do not get nylon. Travelers, and even professional merchandise buyers who should know better, have bought "Mexican nylon" in quantities. Sometimes they have misleading names, such as "carbonyl."

Dozens of pairs have turned up for laboratory analysis at the New York headquarters of the National Association of Hosiery Manufacturers. They're just rayon. You can get them at any hosiery counter in the United States; ceiling price, $1.25.

An Omaha store imported 1,680 pairs of these "nylons" in good faith and advertised them at $2.25, plus $1.85 for customs duty. The Better Business Bureau had a pair analyzed and thus convinced the merchant he had been victimized. The stockings were withdrawn from sale.

The lengths to which the gyps will go is indicated by the troubles of the Van Raalte Company. It is getting a stream of complaints about hosiery bought as nylon, stamped with the Van Raalte name and the nylon trademark and, most convincing, made with the patented Van Raalte toe. Some victims bought the counterfeits in Mexico City, some bought them from bootleggers in the U.S.; but it seems plain that the imitations were all made in Mexico.

The small amount of honest nylon wastage or spoilage that does occur in war production is allotted to manufacturers of underwear, brassieres and girdles -- never to hosiery mills. Every retailer should know that there just isn't any nylon hosiery to be had. Still, when George M. Toney wrote to 1,000 stores from a post office box address in Washington, D. C., offering nylons at $7.44 a dozen pairs, he got orders with some $2,000 cash by return mail. There is no guesswork about the money, because postal authorities opened his mail and counted it.

Ruses of the bootleggers show little originality. The driver of a delivery truck, often bearing the name of a well-known shop, stops a woman on the street and tells her that some nylons were put on his truck by mistake. She can have them at $5 (or $10) a pair. Or a peddler drifts into a doctor's office on the pretext of making an appointment. He casually mentions that the parcel in his hand contains nylon stockings -- unfortunately not his wife's size. Could anyone use them? He is typical of the shifty-eyed, furtive nylon bootleggers who canvass office buildings in the big cities.

Perhaps the limit of credulity is reached by the people who buy compounds which, dissolved in water, will "nylonize" rayon stockings. One of the big hosiery manufacturers remarked dryly, "If any chemist has such a formula, he needn't bother with the 25-cent trade. I'll give him $5,000,000 for it in cash."

After the war there will be nylon hosiery, finer, sheerer, stronger, more beautiful than ever before. Designs for the machines to make it are past the blueprint stage. But until the war is over, the Army and Navy need every pound of nylon. There won't be any for stockings except what is stolen. And there won't be much stolen. So, ladies -- don't be suckers.

In researching crimes in the wake of "Stocking Panic", it is also clear that the threat of such power plays created a panic of victimization which rivaled that of the white slave trade.

In fact, I continue to search publications for the proffered opines of "Beware the nylon stocking offered; you'll end up in white slavery!"

If/when I find some, I shall, of course, share.

Along with the joke of wooing at home with nylons, the fear of betrayals & abuses back home was part of World War II psychological operation (PSYOP) strategy. This excellent article details more than the use of nylon stockings as symbol or eroticism and betrayal, but the use of the sex drive and pornography to "motivate" soldiers. Go read it.

You might find such manipulation of the male sex drive horrific (and I do), but beneath it all is still the notion that we women are "so in love" with nylons, that we'd "do anything" to get them.

We women aren't only fools for fashion, willing to prostitute ourselves for material goods, but we are such delicate things that we can be exploited for them even without intending to be.

We are bad girls because we are weak. And we weaken our men because of it. Men know this about us, and lament the horrors which will befall us because they aren't "home" to save us -- from predatory males and ourselves.

Yuck.

Image Credits/Further Reading: Stockings Go To War scan via CQ; "Stocking Panic" article from Business Week August 9, 1941, via Smithsonian; comic mocking women from 1950 Modern Woman Magazine, via KKC; WWII German propaganda leaflets, via Psywarrior.com.

Caught In A Net Of Irony

Spotting the above photo by BartG had me searching through that folder again for similar images I had seen.


It's not just the seemingly strangeness of the fishnet being such a common prop throughout the years (I can only surmise such themes in nude art photography are the continuing exploration of the "catch a mermaid" fantasy), but the text itself which made these images memorable enough to warrant me lugging that box & folder out to the couch again for another sorting.

These few pages were torn from Figurette, Figure File For Artists, No.3; so along with the photos there is helpful text for the wanna-be artist -- text which legitimized and protected publications with nude women too. So the text, while you may wish to dismiss it in your quest to see more vintage naked boobies, is key here.

Figurette presents a handy, inexpensive guide to the anatomy and constructions of the female figure. The photographs are designed to aid and encourage the reader in the study of art and photography, being of special advantage to the amateur artist in enabling him to further his study of art through the medium of photography. Because it is impossible to draw, accurately, from memory, the artist is encouraged to work from the photographs. Both artist and photographer, in achieving success, must develop dexterity in depicting the human form. Figurette supplies invaluable, authentic copy on proportions, lighting, posing, composition and other facets of figure art as an aid in this comprehensive study.

On the flip side:

Twisting, turning, ever wending curves are the artistic result of the pose achieved in the study above. The netting used in both of these pictures illustrates the point that such props lose validity unless they serve to highlight contours or mood. In these cases they do neither. Photographs by Glamourarts.

In case you weren't reading for comprehension -- and I suspect that's quite a few here as well as the majority of original owners of Figurette magazine -- let me point out that the (at least) three photos, including the full page one inside the front cover, are published as examples of what not to do.

I would think such exploitative use of nudes as the "bad examples" would, if done often enough, have been enough to undermine the very "artistic guide status" Figurette boasted of and likely used to beat the censors.

However, censors themselves were likely to be distracted by the "twisting, turning, ever wending curves" in the photographs & so mistake the wording of the second line as a "to do". The last line (if read at all), the: "In these cases they do neither," became an irony lost.

To everyone but me.

What The Donges??

I picked up this scrap of paper at a sale recently -- and have become obsessed with it. Dating from no later than the 1920's, it's a promotional piece for an old genteel establishment selling hats & gloves to gentlemen (but as you shall see, there's much more to it!)

Jac. F. Donges
Founder of DONGES BAY
Who has GLOVES to Burn
And some that don't Burn
HATS and CAPS

319 Third Street
MILWAUKEE, WIS.

Now, this is interesting for several reasons... The Jac F. Donges Hat & Glove shop was a Milwaukee institution, only just closed in 2001 (replaced by :gasp: a Subway restaurant). And Donges Bay is a place I have been (hello, Sybaris in Mequon!). But little information exists on the company or the man who founded it &, apparently, Donges Bay.

Heavy research provides us with the fact that Jac and his brother, Charles, founded the area.



Charles, also a partner in the hat business (then called Donges Brothers), died June 28, 1894, and while he managed to be listed in the 1902 Notable men of Wisconsin, he's all but ignored in history and Jac gets all the credit.



Perhaps this is fair, for Jac was quite the character.

In 1842, his parents, Mr. Jacob Donges and his wife, emigrated to Milwaukee from Germany. In 1860 they had a son, Jacob Jr. Jacob Jr. or Jac, as he preferred to be called. Jac inherited the position of janitor at Milwaukee's City Hall from his father and then worked in the garment business for some friends, which led to opening his own shop.

As an entrepreneurial businessman, his financial success led to investments in real estate along the north shore of lake Michigan, specifically purchasing the Basler and Kemp farms along what is now known as Donges Bay. These were lands he'd seen in 1884 calling the beautiful deep ravine with a creek at its bottom empties into the lake "Fairy chasm", and vowed to own. This land, along with land co-owned by friends (such as Fred Usinger, founder of Usinger Sausage Co.), became part of the holdings of the Fish Creek Park Company, established September 13, 1892. The company issued 146 shares of stock, one each for the 146 acres, at $285 per share and offered to mainly friends of Jac's, creating a private summer resort community.

During the first ten years of Fish Creek Park, the stockholders were permitted to use the land in any way they chose, from informal Sunday picnics to the construction of summer homes.

Enter the other side of the old promotional paper.

WITHIN THE LINES
IN THE GOOD OLD U.S.A.
AT
DONGES BAY

ALL'S WELL
AT SCHUCH'S RESORT

I found no information on Schuch's Resort; however, there was a friend of Jac's, John Schuch, who built Chalet on the Lake resort and restaurant in the area, which is now called Mequon. (According to the Fish Creek Park Company records, things got dicey after the first decade, and the community of Fairy Chasm evolved into two sections, North Fairy Chasm becoming Mequon in 1957 and South Fairy Chasm becoming Bayside in 1955. Absolutely fascinating stuff, but I digress.)

Here's a vintage postcard of the dining room, and a platter from the restaurant:




Little else could be discovered about the Chalet, other than Mark Harmon's Dillinger was filmed there (with the location used to represent Little Bohemia) and that it was owned by Jerome Perlson from 1966 until 1990 when he retired and the restaurant was sold, replaced by the development of private homes.

Could this chalet been the Schuch's Resort of the old little flyer? Maybe...

But what makes this all interesting enough to be here at Silent Porn Star is what happens when you fold the piece of paper...


The classic finish to "All's well"... "That ends well." Complete with nude bottoms up in the air as mom, dad, and junior do handstands under the water.

Cute and risque, especially for a gentleman's hat & gloves shop, but I discovered even more.

Holding and worrying over this bit of old paper, trying to find more information on Donges. I read the few lines so many times, hoping for another clue...

That line, "within the lines" stuck out for me. It didn't seem to make much sense. A colloquialism? Mmmmaybe. But being aware of riddles and puns, I then noticed the strange lines about the boy in the water... Was there something within, between them?

My husband says I'm just seeing things, but if you block the image at the one line, and turn it upside down, I see some even more risque antics beneath the water...


Is it just me? Tell me what you see...

And please do tell me if you know more about Jac Donges et al. (I'm itching to get back to the area soon to see what I can research... And stay at the Sybaris, of course. *wink*)

PS Yes, I'm putting this under "Beefcake" because Donges was so wealthy, no doubt he was heavily pursued and likely quite a playboy or other which such privilege allows. At least until I'm proven otherwise.

I Like It Here, By Kingsley Amis

I Like It Here, by Kingsley Amis (© 1958, Ballantine Books, First Printing, August, 1971) promises, "A rollicking trip with a not-so-innocent abroad," features an intimate embrace on both the front & back covers, and has a salacious teaser page regarding an international kiss not bound by the same language barriers as speech.



Naturally, I concluded that this story of Garnet Bowen, a reluctant traveler (forced to travel by his wife who wants a family holiday with the additional incentive of two paid writing gigs), would involve some sort of sordid reading... Having read Only Two Can Play/That Uncertain Feeling by Amis, I not only was anticipating Garnet's extra-marital exploits (or at least his fantasies of such) but was looking forward to this book.

But I would be disappointed.

What little dalliance there may be, it's but a few paragraphs more than the teaser; and it is about as awkward as trying to communicate in a language you don't know.

OK, so it's not the smut-fest the publishers made it out to be; that's not unusual -- not for such books at that time or books and films produced & marketed today. So what is it about?

I Like It Here is about a married man's reluctance to accept both the old and the new. His married life & work seems to make him feel miserable about himself yet he resists any change, large or small. It's a whiny, "Poor me, I'm a put-out male," story which certainly will resonate for many men; but leaves me wanting his wife to divorce him and get on with her own life -- rescuing the children from such a full-time putz influence.

While That Uncertain Feeling explored male insecurities (and ineptness), it did so without such a mopey whine and it didn't rely so heavily on a rushed Hail Mary wrap-up at the end.

Not surprisingly, I Like It Here is forever heard by me with a "but" in front of it, spoken in the pouty tone of a petulant toddler who doesn't want to leave the park.

What is surprising is that I Like It Here was the next story in Kingsley Amis' Jim Dixon series:

Lucky Jim (1954)
That Uncertain Feeling (1955)
I Like it Here (1958)
Lucky Jim's Politics (1968)

This was unknown to me because A), the lead character in Only Two Can Play/That Uncertain Feeling was called John Lewis, and B), as mentioned, Garnet Bowen was the lead in I Like It Here. So how was I to know?

Knowing this changes things a bit. Not only am I reading different versions, where more than names could have been changed, but I can, out of my affection for John Lewis/Jim Dixon, act like his wife must have been doing and try to remember the man he used to be. I'll cut him some slack.

But still, if you're looking for smut, I Like It Here is the wrong place.

The Four Types Of Women In Film

From STUPOR STUPOROUS's Women in Film:

In a study of the films from the 1930s to 1970s, historians have categorized four dominant types of roles that women played. The first one is the “Pillar of Virtue” types played by Doris Day or Julie Andrews. This category also features mothers and mammies such as Hattie McDaniel’s character in “Gone with the Wind.” The “Glamour Girl” range from sex goddesses such as Marilyn Monroe in “Bus Stop” to femme fatales such as Marlene Dietrich in “Blonde Venus.” The “Emotive Woman” is the sexually frustrated Rosalind Russell in “Picnic” and the seductive Elizabeth Taylor in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” Thus, the last category, the “Independent” woman or the Katharine Hepburn type, is Barbara Streisand in “Funny Girl,” or Jane Fonda in “Klute,” the liberated woman. Throughout much of film history, women have been depicted as manipulative, sexually repressed, or sexually overt. There was also a lack of sisterhood and films with women interacting with other women in a positive light. In the 1950s, especially, we witnessed an era of “reaffirming male dominance and female subservience; movies showed women as breasts and buttocks, again idealizing women who were ‘pretty, amusing, and childish,’” (Butler, 145). Much of this female contempt has endured and remained, although it may not be as obvious as the previous decades. Nowadays, we see more sensationalized sexual roles for women as the trend began in the 70s. Women now are also shown as waifs similar to the 60s trend, which was a severe contrast to the idea image of the 50s. All in all, women are becoming an endangered species in films and taking increasingly less leading roles.

Sex Is Everywhere

I'm no prude, but I have to wonder (again & again) why folks are always so upset by porn and nudity -- usually defending it with a "save the children!" scream of anguish while the truth is any child anywhere is aware of sex.

In many places children see their parents and other adults copulating, and it is fact that this occurred in the early beds of Puritanical America; something most would conveniently forget or slide into that didn't-know couldn't-do any-better of "less developed countries".

However, while Western cultures sigh and claim themselves superior, they doth protest too much regarding nudity & sexuality. For they've put it everywhere. Today's exhibits: Garbage Pail Kids cards from the mid-1980s.


Pourin' Lauren is clearly a Playboy Bunny. And Nicky Hickey & Marty Gras must have led to a few conversations (parental or peer).



These packs of cards/stickers with gum were marketed towards kids as a mockery of the Cabbage Patch Kids dolls so that would definitely be kids, not teens or even tweens, yet it was expected that they'd know Playboy Bunnies and hickeys -- and so much more.

Like the comforting notion of a Peeping Tom.



It's pretty clear that even with the sophomoric humor, these cards are for adults to appreciate. What else could Turned-On Tara refer to? Drugs? A real human light fixture?



But then again, perhaps the risque humor is something I read into them...

Having a woman smell fishy?


Swollen Sue Ellen... wasn't she J.R.'s used and abused wife on Dallas? Maybe that was just a euphemism used in my neighborhood.



There are lots of euphemisms in these cards, for a mind like mine.




But even if One-Eyed Jack isn't a euphemism for penis, do we expect 8 year olds to know Poker references? I'm guessing they understand them about as well as the poke-her references which are all around us.


Images from this retro Garbage Pail Kids gallery, via Collectors' Quest's blog.

Of Tijuana Bibles, Politics & John McCain's Breasts

Chris of Literate Perversions, has a review/response to Ethan Persoff's personal website (a regular SPS stop) at Sex In The Public Square, the latter of which is where the following gem comes:

Ethan claims to have found a long-lost Tijuana Bible, a "Lieberman Squeezer" from 1934, starring George W. Bush and John McCain. I don't know where he found it, but it certainly captures the modern relationship between the two men accurately, and I don't know that that's a good thing. Look at the link only if you are of strong mind and moral character, otherwise you put your very reason in jeopardy.

Yes, the comic really is ugly and distasteful, but honestly, it's nowhere near as ugly and distasteful as the face the country has worn for the last eight years. I'm tired of living in fear and hating the way my neighbors and family keep trying to twist the worst parts of America into the best. I can't think of any better way to respond to Republicans than obscenity.

This is the cover of the faux 1934 Tijuana Bible:



(That's one government teat I don't ever want to suck off of. :shudder:)

See the rest of George Bush & John McCain's Tijuana Bible here.

Me thinketh this is another satire which will not be understood; but I doubt it will appear in any Republican propaganda.

Audrey Munson: Star (Crossed) Maiden

In My Fascination with Nudies: Collecting Nude Art, Val mentions Alexander Stirling Calder's sculpture, Star Maiden, created for the 1915 Panama Pacific International Exposition and up for auction June 21st by Michaan’s Auctions by the Bay.

Audrey Marie Munson was the 15 year old model for the piece.

It is said that she was discovered by chance in New York City by Ralph Draper, a professional photographer who passed Munson and her (divorced) mother walking down the street. Draper is said to have told mom that her daughter's face is one he longed to photograph. She consented and didn't seem to mind that her daughter would be nude.



Draper took many photographs, some of which he showed to his artist friend, Isidore Konti.

Quickly Munson becomes a society darling and model of choice for artistic nudes by all the big-name sculptors and painters, posing for hundreds of works that still adorn public buildings and museums.



As the "the girl with the ideal figure" Munson was the model for 94 versions of Star Maiden & other sculptures at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition -- said to be 75% of all the female-figure works at the Exposition. From BikiniScience.com:

Munson is chosen to be the featured model for sculptures which tell the story of the Panama Pacific International Exposition in San Francisco. Her nude body rides atop an oxcart (1) , sits atop a fountain (2), and bears water in angelic form (3). She wears a barebreasted halter as she reclines on a phallic fish (4), wears a diaphanous and revealing costume as the "Star Girl" (5), and bares her breasts and pubis as an angel (6).

Likely as a result of her err, exposure in California at the expo, Munson moved to California and got a contract with the American Film Company.

Her first project was as an actress on a special-project basis with Thanhouser. The five-reel film was George Foster Platt's Inspiration (1915), the story of (surprise!) a sculptor's model, in which "the girl with the ideal figure" poses nude in classic artwork poses. (The film was reissued by the Arrow Film Corporation in 1918 as The Perfect Model).



Inspiration is often credited as the first time that a woman appeared fully nude on film. I think it is more accurate to say that this is the first time a mainstream or legitimate full-feature film had the leading actress go completely nude, without body stocking, and that while Munson was the lead, she was not yet a "film star" (still leaving Kellerman her title of first star to go nude in a feature film).


There was, of course, controversy about Inspiration and its nudity, picketing and the like, but censors were reluctant to ban the film, fearing they would then also have to ban Renaissance art & close museums as such art was featured in the film.

The film was big at the box office, and a year later she would star in Rea Burger's 7-reel silent film, Purity (1916), in a dual role as a spirit figure and as (yet another) country-girl turned nude artist's model. From The New York Times:

Just in case there was any doubt that this American Film Company production was meant to be an allegory, the authors helpfully bestowed upon the characters such names as Purity, Virtue, Evil, Luston Black and Judith Lure! Cast in the dual role of Virtue and Purity, Audrey Munson enjoys the attentions of poet Thornton Darcy (Nigel de Brulier) and Claude Lamarque (Alfred Hollingsworth). But watch out for that no-good snake Luston Black (William A. Carroll) and his scheming mistress Judith Lure (Eugenie Forde). "To the Pure, All Things Are Pure" read one of the film's subtitles. Maybe so, but any film that banked so heavily on the undraped beauty of leading lady Audrey Munson) could not have helped but plant a few impure thoughts in the minds of its male spectators.

It was in this year, 1916, that Munson is said to appear on US coins. Having been Adolph Alexander Weinman's model, she appears on dimes minted from 1916-1945 called the Winged Liberty Head dime but often (mistakenly) called the "Mercury" dime (kindly note the discrepancy on the model information) as well as the Walking Liberty half-dollar (1916-1947).



In 1918, Munson appeared in The Girl O' Dreams:

After the death of his young wife, Phillip Fletcher, a millionaire and sculptor, makes his home on an uncharted desert island. Harry LeRoy, a cad who is courting the widow Mrs. Hansen, desires the widow's convent-bred daughter Norma and persuades mother and daughter to accompany him on a sea cruise. When the ship catches fire, Norma, abandoned by LeRoy and her mother in the confusion, is washed ashore on Phillip's island. Phillip clothes and shelters Norma, whose mind has become childlike from shock, and uses her as a model for his sculptures. Through Phillip's friend Jack, a photo of one of the sculptures travels to America, where LeRoy sees it and subsequently finds his way to Phillip's island. LeRoy tries to rape Norma, and in the ensuing struggle LeRoy is killed and Norma recovers her adult personality. Phillip, who is in love with Norma, sorrowfully returns her to the United States, but Norma does not board the boat, and Phillip, finding her posing as one of his statues when he returns to his hut, finally declares his love.

Talk about your typecasting.

While the films were box office successes, the reviews were mixed, and one can only imagine how quickly the novelty of the nude model turned actress whose only real roles were that of nude models lost its lust-her.

Munson returned to New York and her mother.

In 1919, back in New York, she and her mother lived in a boarding house owned by Dr. Walter Wilkins. Wilkins fell in love with her, murdering his wife, Julia, with a hammer so he could be available to marry Munson. By the time of the murder, Munson and her mother had left for Canada under the "advice" of Mrs. Wilkins and had nothing to do with the murder, but the police still wanted to question them, resulting in a nationwide hunt for them, with headlines announcing, "Syracuse Model wanted in N.Y.C. Tragedy". When finally questioned in Toronto, the police were satisfied & the women left to return to New York. (Wilkins himself was tried, found guilty, and sentenced; but he hung himself in his prison cell before he could meet the electric chair.)

The Beaux-Arts construction boom was over, fickle Hollywood fame had left, and the dark cloud of scandal hung about her, ending both her modeling & acting careers. While some would say that Munson was forgotten, she did continue to work in public view -- not just present in sculpture and art, but as a columnist.


In the 1920s, she wrote a series of 20 articles for American Weekly, a Sunday insert in The New York American (originally the New York Journal, renamed in 1901), one of the preceding publications merged to form the New York Journal-American, which served as the flagship of William Randolph Hearst's communications empire from 1895 to 1966.

From a NY Times article:

In them she criticized society's lack of respect for models and challenged the prevailing standards of decency and beauty. "All girls cannot be perfect 36s, with bodies of mystic warmth and plastic marble effect, colored with rose and a dash of flame," she wrote. "Of course not."

And in at least one article, Munson wrote of "a man prominent in the theatrical world" (she never named names) who had decided to ruin her career after she resisted his advances.

Munson made one more film, Heedless Moths, which she is credited with writing as well as performing in. Again from the New York Times:

The story involves an incident in the life of notorious early 20th century nude model Audrey Munson. Munson herself appears in various stages of undress, but she doesn't actually play herself -- that's left to Jane Thomas. According to the picture, Munson is supporting herself and her mother through her modeling, but she is actually a good girl -- when a painter makes a play for her, she walks out. She is brought to a celebrated sculptor (Holmes E. Herbert), who is inspired by her beauty and asks her to pose nude for a statue. The sculptor's wife (Hedda Hopper) becomes jealous of all the attention her husband is giving his art and has an affair with the painter. The painter dumps his latest model/mistress for the wife, and the rejected girl swears revenge. She writes a letter to the sculptor informing him that his wife is having dinner with the painter. Munson rushes to take the wife's place at the table and pretends to be drunk when the sculptor shows up. He's so disgusted that he destroys the statue he made of her. Eventually Munson orchestrates a reconciliation between the sculptor and his wife.

It wasn't enough to resurrect a film career -- and enough became enough for Audrey Munson.



After failing to find "the perfect man" in a widely publicized search for a husband in 1922, on the afternoon of May 27, 1922, at her home in Mexico, New York, Audrey Munson swallowed a solution of bichloride of mercury.

From the article that ran May 28th of that year, some interesting notes:

Miss Munson still refuses to disclose the contents of the telegram she received shortly before she tried to take her life. It is thought it may have come from Joseph J. Stevenson, of Ann Arbor, Mich., to whom she said was engaged.

...It became known today that since the announcement of her engagement to Mr. Stevenson, Miss Munson has been calling herself Baroness Audrey Merl Munson-Monson, though the derivation of the title is as much a mystery as her effort to commit suicide.

...Some doubt was expressed in Mexico today as the the authenticity of the telegram.

...An extensive search in Ann Arbor for Joseph J Stevenson, reported engaged to Audrey Munson, has failed to reveal any trace of him. So far as can be learned, no man by that name ever lived here.

She was saved from the suicide attempt, but not really saved at all... On June 8th, 1931, she was admitted to the St. Lawrence State Hospital for the Insane, in nearby Ogdensburg. She was just 40 years old.



To the world she was gone and forgotten.

Which was rather as Munson feared, I suppose, as she wrote this in one of her columns in 1921:

What becomes of the artists’ models? I am wondering if many of my readers have not stood before a masterpiece of lovely sculpture or a remarkable painting of a young girl, her very abandonment of draperies accentuating rather than diminishing her modesty and purity, and asked themselves the question, "Where is she now, this model who was so beautiful?"

Just a few wondered about her... Like Barry Popik (links added by SPS):

So I said how about this, I've got another story, there's this woman named Audrey Munson, and she's on top of this building as "Civic Fame," and we just gilted her statues at great expense, but no one knows who she is, or if she's alive or dead...

"Rescuing a Heroine From the Clutches of Obscurity" appeared in the New York Times, city section, April 14, 1996. It was the only article published on Audrey Munson since 1926, in 70 years. The article mentioned, in passing, that I'd also solved "the Big Apple."

I donated my papers and a copy of the article to the National Sculpture Society. I got a call from a book publisher, and I sent copies of all the papers there as well. One woman, a photographer, called and said she was interested in a photo book about Miss Munson. She had contacted me through the Times. I gave her all my papers and met her and another woman, a writer. I told them that I didn't have any book plans at the moment—I was busy with my father and mother dying, and a full time job, and this Big Apple Boulevard/Corner catastrophe. However, if they were interested, they should contact anyone upstate in her home town of Mexico, NY named "Munson." I never heard from the two women again.

"That Metropolitan Woman" was a book review in the New York Times of October 3,1999. Accompanying the review was a photo of a sculpture identified as Daniel Chester French's "Brooklyn" that was really "Manhattan." The book was American Venus. The authors had gone upstate and had found a treasure trove of Audrey Munson material. Audrey had been living in a mental institution for almost seventy years, until her death in 1996 at age 105. The authors, the review stated, "have made an extraordinary effort to reclaim long-forgotten facts, newspaper clippings and vintage photographs of a once -celebrated life." I wrote a letter to the editor of the book review that, just three years before, in the very same newspaper—yeah, my letter wasn't published.

The book didn't even give me a single credit.

From that article, Rescuing a Heroine From the Clutches of Obscurity:

But such efforts seem incidental in comparison with Mr. Popick's obsession with Miss Munson, a woman he calls "more popular than Cindy Crawford but much uglier." A raven-haired native of Mexico, N.Y., near Syracuse, she starred in a handful of plays and silent movies, but they generally received dismissive reviews. It was her modeling career that made sculptors like Daniel Chester French vie for her services and rave over the dimples in her back.

Mr. Popick might well empathize with her history. He has written numerous plays, short stories and research papers. To date, however, Mr. Popick's efforts have received almost as much scorn as Miss Munson.

Say what you may about Popik, he's worked to get the U. S. Postal Service to issue an Audrey Munson stamp, honoring America's greatest model.

Audrey Munson died February 20, 1996, at age 105, nearly alone &, in something that's past tolerable in irony, in an unmarked grave. Says Joe Schumacher of the blog Audrey Munson: model, muse, forgotten, remembered:

She had been committed to the Ogdensburg Psychiatric Institution in 1931 for what now are largely treatable diseases of depression and schizophrenia. Her parents divorced when Audrey was very young. After her parents died (Edgar is her father) she had no visitors for several decades before being rediscovered by a niece. Audrey Munson is buried in an unmarked grave in her father's plot in the New Haven, NY cemetery.

The Audrey Munson Fund is "collecting funds to finance a gravestone for Munson, who though deceased for more than ten years still doesn’t have one."

In total, Munson starred in four silent films; but only one print of Purity has survived (said to be in an archive in France). But if you want to see her, all you have to do is look her up -- and then, most likely, look up to gaze upon the face and form that has launched a thousand artworks.


Even after her lifetime.

For more on Audrey Munson, see:

Andrea Geyer’s book, Queen of the Artists’ Studios.

PS While the article on Popik says that Munson was in plays, I wonder if Wiki should be linking to this Audrey Munson at the Internet Broadway Database -- if this is the same Munson, she would have been on the stage at 9 years of age. (Then again, I never know what the hell Wiki's going on at Wiki.)

However, it is said that Munson did inspire a bit in Broadway's Oh, Lady, Lady.

Leap Year Presents Quite A Leap

In Lessons In Vintage Postcards: The Leap Year Proposal we discover a gem by Dorothy Dix (1904):

That woman labors under a great matrimonial disadvantage in not being able to pop the question no one will deny. It forces her to take what is offered to her instead of the thing for which she would ask if she had the privilege, and even when leap year removes the bar against her speaking out in meeting it does her little good, for it finds her with no precedent to guide her, no experience to be a lamp to her feet.

Click the image to read it all (and the link for more info).

Dorothy Kilgallen, Taking It On The Chin

I am rather obsessed with watching the old What's My Line? & I've Got A Secret episodes. The shows' charms lay as much in the panelists themselves as it does with the guests (including "famous" folks I've never heard of) and, of course, the numerous delights that such vintage television provides. I've mentioned my delight in calling panelists names, simply because of what I'm continually discovering about them, but sometimes I'm just darn cruel.

For example, I'm so rigorous in my negative comments about panelist Dorothy Kilgallen's chin, saying things like, "I must Google to see if there's record of the incident with a horse that must have stepped on her face," that hubby was starting to become immune to them.

But now I feel badly about that... And not because hubby rolls his eyes at me with silent judgement for my rudeness or with boredom.

In deciding to investigate Kilgallen's chin, I discovered that Frank Sinatra and I held the same views on it. Performing in Vegas, Old Blue Eyes called her "the chinless wonder", and at the Copa, he said, "everyone in New York is here tonight except for Dorothy Kilgallen... she's out looking for her chin." Just more to love, or hate, about Sinatra, depending your personal views on the man.

But in discovery of such statements, I learned more about Dorothy Kilgallen, history, culture -- and myself -- than I ever could have imagined.

Kilgallen was more deeply entrenched in the romantic, mysterious, fascinating world of the late 50's and 60's that I prefer to live in, at least research wise.

Kilgallen left a small Hollywood career for that of a journalist. She was not only a gossip columnist, but a crime journalist -- which makes her more than the stereotypical female press person you think of, but a woman ahead of her times pursuing a profession deemed unsuitable for females. She also became the first woman to fly around the world.

But more than this, she was a woman. A woman who, lonely in her marriage to a cheating husband, turned to singer Johnnie Ray, a man 14 years younger than she, for what would be not only a passionate love affair, but a long-term one as well. This is where the feud with Sinatra is said to be at least partially rooted:

Sinatra had loathed Johnnie Ray from the moment the young musical upstart hit the scene. Ray's conquest of the pop charts in '51 (the top three spots all at once occupied by the same artist) had come at a time when the once (and soon to be again) successful Sinatra couldn't draw headlines unless it was for indulging in his penchant for punching paparazzi. So in '51, Frank was outraged to see that his place in pop music's upper echelon had been replaced by a skinny, half-deaf, androgynous cry-baby who all the scandal sheets proclaimed as a raging homosexual, and he was further incensed by the fact that the love of his life Ava Gardner had a star-struck obsession with the singer. Frank harbored a lifelong grudge.

Dorothy Kilgallen had been less than flattering to Sinatra in her popular opinion columns, citing his violent behavior and brooding public persona.

All of this melted my cold negative commenting heart a bit, but there is more.

As a gossip columnist in this time period, it would only be natural that Dorothy would know of and write stories about Marilyn Monroe. But I didn't know that she was one of the first to write of Monroe in some rather surprising ways, including her death:

On Aug. 3, 1962, Kilgallen became the first journalist to refer publicly to Marilyn Monroe's relationship with a Kennedy. Within 48 hours, Marilyn was found dead of a drug overdose at her Los Angeles residence. The inquiry into her death was marred by numerous unanswered questions and contradictions in the medical findings.* Dorothy publicly challenged the authorities with tough questions. For instance, she wrote, "If the woman described as Marilyn's 'housekeeper' [Eunice Murray] was really a housekeeper, why was her bedroom such a mess? It was a small house and should have been easy to keep tidy." Kilgallen also wanted to know "why was Marilyn's door locked that night, when she didn't usually lock it? If she were just trying to get to sleep, and took the overdose of pills accidentally, why was the light on? Usually people sleep better in the dark." And she asked, "Why did the first doctor [to arrive on the scene] have to call the second doctor before calling the police? Any doctor, even a psychiatrist, knows a dead person when he sees one, especially when rigor mortis has set in and there are marks of lividity on the surface of the face and body. Why the consultation? Why the big time gap in such a small town? Mrs. Murray gets worried at about 3 a.m., and it's almost 6 a.m. before the police get to the scene."

Kilgallen wrote that "the real story hasn't been told, not by a long shot." Such bold reporting was not common in American journalism at that time.

In a case of what can now surely be called foreshadowing, this is eerily similar to the death of Kilgallen herself, just a few years later.

On November 8, 1965, Dorothy Kilgallen was found dead in her own home. A death with equally strange details, powerful connections, and a poor investigation of its very own.

She was found by her hairstylist, Marc Sinclaire, who after discovering her, told friend Charles Simpson, "When I tell you the bed she was found in, and how I found her, you're going to know she was murdered."

Things amiss include:

Kilgallen not sleeping in that room or bed.

A woman who was normally cold, putting the air conditioning on when it was cold outside.

Kilgallen routinely slept in pajamas and old socks, no make up etc., yet she was found not only wearing a peignoir set, but with hair and makeup in place as if she were going out.

Kilgallen had a book, The Honey Badger, by Robert Ruark, laid out on the bed next to her, but not only was it not in the proper position for her if she was reading it, it was a book she'd already finished reading & discussed with friends -- and while Dorothy needed glasses to read, they weren't found in the room.

There was a drink on the nightstand by the bed, but where Kilgallen sat, it was out of reach.

Oh, and while we're at it, those first at the scene say there was a piece of paper by the door, eluded to by some as a suicide note, but it was never produced and no one claims to have read it.

While there are many other curious things about the way cause of death was noted (and by whom), the story officially touted is that Kilgallen, like Monroe, had over-dosed, either as a suicide or more likely by accident.

As Kilgallen wrote about Monroe, why would a woman seeking to sleep, wear an outfit she never wore, put herself in a room so cold as to be uncomfortable, not remove her eyelashes -- or at least the very uncomfortable to lean upon hair pieces, get a book she's not only already read but then not bring along her glasses, and put a drink (medicated or not) on a table near the bed but then place herself such that she would not be able to reach it easily? And all this in a room she didn't sleep in?

Curiosity only grows when one discovers what Kilgallen had been doing in the years between Monroe's death and Kilgallen's own.

Just months after Monroe's death, on November 22, 1963, JFK was assassinated and Kilgallen was not only upset by the event, but was investigating it. She didn't believe the Oswald story at all, and when Jack Ruby shot Oswald, she arranged to have a private interview with Ruby.

No one is certain what was said in that interview, but Kilgallen often said she had something big, which would crack the JFK investigation wide -- and then some. She continued not only to investigate, but pen columns about it too, and it was said that the Ruby interview and other details would be published in her forthcoming book, Murder One, which was contracted to write for fellow What's My Line? panelist, Bennett Cerf, & Random House -- published without any such chapter(s) after her death. Kilgallen's file of notes on all this, seen by a number of persons, has yet to surface. Both the known and unknown details are fascinating -- and the stuff for conspiracy theorists, such as this article, Who Killed Dorothy Kilgallen? by Robert Morningstar.

As easily drawn into such things as I can be, I'm leaving the threads here for you to follow-up as you choose, while I continue a different path.

What strikes me, shames me too, are other thoughts....

I don't like to reduce people, especially women, to such symbolic status that their humanity is removed, but in this case, Marilyn and Dorothy represent far more than just themselves.



While not complete mirror opposites, it's clear they each offer moments upon which to reflect upon their differences. Marilyn Monroe's wish for the sort of respect and admiration Dorothy Kilgallen had is widely documented. And Dorothy, who loved opulent surroundings and personal glamour, likely wished, at least from time to time, for some of Marilyn's beauty and to be seen and coveted in such terms. Neither was granted their wishes, of course, but such personal and private dreams are larger than just these two women.

If the woman of beauty, a man's plaything, is understood to matter less in this world, her afterlife continues to grow her legend. Monroe's beauty & status as sex icon only gathers more strength, even if she herself is batted about and accepted as a pawn at the whims of men and society.

If a woman's intelligence, however threatening, is supposed to matter more than earthy beauty, why is Kilgallen the less known? Her valor and strength are not reported and commented upon, even upon the anniversaries of her death. She is not revered -- in fact, she's nearly lost to history already.

We may never know what happened to each of these women. Their stories may or may not be tied to such grand crimes and cover-ups as the conspiracy theorists argue. But the really horrific facts are the if, how, and why these women are remembered. Conspiracy cover-ups aside, our collective societal values have been uncovered, and I do not like what I see.

Or what I myself have said and done with comments about Dorothy's chin.

If you can hear me now, Dorothy, you have my most sincere apologies.

For more on Dorothy Kilgallen:

What's My Line?: Daly & Dorothy... The Stalwart & The Tragedy (scroll to mid-page for the start of Kilgallen's story)

One of the most discussed books on Kilgallen's death is Kilgallen: A Biography of Dorothy Kilgallen, by Lee Israel.

The book was rumored to be made into a film, with, according to Johnnie Ray in a 1981 interview, Shirley MacLaine to play Dorothy Kilgallen (and David Bowie to play Johnnie Ray). Here's what Johnnie Ray had to say about the book and the matter of Dorothy's death:



Also of interest, at least to me, is this book: Johnnie Ray and Miss Kilgallen, by Bonnie Hill.

You can watch the first episode of What's My Line? aired after Dorothy's death (Part One, which Daly's comments, Part Two, Part Three, with the panelists' comments on Dorothy's passing as part of their nightly good-byes).

See also, Kilgallen's connections to Dr. Sam Sheppard's trial.

Something Old, Something New: Barbi Benton For You

Tonight, relaxing from a day of hunting, we are listening to records.

Yes, good old vinyl.

Last week, when out and about, I bought a Barbi Benton album, Something New (Playboy Records). I bought it not for the musicality (and having listened to it, there's nothing really to comment on), but for the giggle factor; I just wanted to call my sister and tell her I had a Boobie Benton LP.

Yes, my sister and I called her Boobie Benton.

I'm not proud of it, or anything.

But let's face it, back then our knowledge of Ms. Benton came from her appearances on Hee Haw, and while we knew nothing of her link to Hugh Hefner, Playboy After Dark, or even that Hef and Playboy existed (yet), we weren't blind. At first, Barbi's corny sexualized costumes may have not meant much to we wee girls, but as we grew (and feared further growth) into puberty, we became more than a bit self-conscious...

What do immature humans do in uncomfortable situations or with uncomfortable feelings? Mock the thing that brings them to mind, duh. (Note: This is normal & find for kids, but adults really should mature their minds along with their bodies.)

So, Barbi Benton became Boobie Benton. And Adrienne Barbeau was -- you guessed it -- Adrienne Barboob. (You don't want to know what we called Connecticut Avenue when we played Monopoly without our parents around.)

Ironically, while sis and I were often too naive to appropiately deal with our feelings about boobs, or know that Hee Haw was inspired by Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In, we both were sophisticated enough to realize that Laugh-In was the far more biting & better show.

Back to Boobi...


Barbi Benton was published in Playboy, including covers, but she was never a centerfold... Do you think that has to do with the relationship with Hef? Like he either felt territorial or feared accusations of cronyism? Of course, it could just have been her choice.

But I am struck by how fresh, cute and innocent Barbi's look is compared to Hef's current type (and by that I mean the same plastic blonde bimbo look his girls have had for decades). Barbi Benton more exemplifies the original Playboy magazine ideals of sex not being dirty, that it's something everyone does, including the girl next door.

How far Playboy has drifted in that regard... Much to my personal disappointment.

Today Benton is still beautiful, if blonde, apparently a pottery loving interior decorator, and while her bangs live on, some think she hasn't aged well on the inside, saying, "Some women can age gracefully, trading physical beauty for inner strength. I wanted Barbi to be one of those. Instead, she is a black hole of bitterness, disconnected from reality, obsessed with the few short years she felt alive."

Yikes. (I couldn't get the video to play, so I can't comment.)

But the real burning question on my mind is: Where's the Internet Homage to Sugar Time!

Sugar Time! was the short-lived television series which starred Benton (Maxx), Marianne Black (Maggie) and Didi Carr (Diane -- shown at left on Match Game, via), as a girl band ready to make it big.

Where are the 70's TV fans who should be making pages and posts, if not an entire site, to the show? I vaguely remember it... It's sort of fuzzy -- and bouncy in my recollection. But then I must be on the right track, as it was the show which caused the term "jiggle TV" to be coined. Certainly that merits some actual archival interest, right?

Ratting Around For Adult Collectibles

I spent the day ratting around for stuff -- yes, vintage nudie stuff.

Hubby is also a collector, and while he doesn't collect what I do he certainly supports my smut habit, both from the understanding of a collector who lusts and as a man who doesn't exactly complain when I bring more naked women and vintage erotica. So we spent the entire day as collectors dream, scouring for objects, especially those we can actually afford.

As usual, he ends up with more stuff to add to his collection. This because the real good nudie stuff isn't just rare in terms of what survived (or hasn't been snatched by family), but because most places won't sell the stuff. Those who run rummage sales won't exactly display the stuff for their neighbors to see. Ditto donating to the local thrift shoppes.


And on the rare occasion the smutty stuff ends up at a thrift shoppe, they dispose of it quickly. (Some just plain toss it out, per their policy; others have been wiser and have relationships with most fortunate private collectors &/or dealers who get a call and quickly arrive to purchase the boxes at the back door. I am always trying to get myself into that action; but so far, have had no luck making the proper connections.)

Even at antique shops, managers do not like to display & proffer the smut. They fear everything from shoppers complaining that they won't come in anymore because their children can see it, to groups protesting against child porn in nudist magazines. Since the line between art and porn is so subjective (and the debate regarding nudist materials even more heated), most managers won't even bother to make a policy other than, "No."

I do know a few managers/owners who keep smut stashed under the counter etc. for dealers & collectors like myself; but it takes quite a bit of time to develop the trust & relationship to be taught the secret knock & password. I have a few of these opportunities, but usually the dealers will pay so quickly for the good stuff that there's not much left for me to pick through.

Occasionally, estate sales are the best hunting grounds. These folks both know the value of smut and now to peddle it. They will clearly state "vintage Playboys" in the ads (why Playboy is allowed to be named everywhere, while other mags are not, still amazes me), but otherwise refer to other naughtiness as "risque collectibles" or "risque barware and publications" or some such. In any case, we collectors know what they mean. And we show up in droves -- on the first day. (For cheap sluts like me, it's often more of a museum visit than a buying spree... but sometimes I do get lucky.)

All of this is to say that today, my options were few.

What you see here, the photos illustrating this post, were the "dirtiest" things I could find today. And I didn't buy any of them. While worthy of adding to my collection, they were too expensive for things I see often enough, like ceramic s&p shakers with nude girls, pinup calendars (even soapy nude ones), and vintage lingerie boxes.

Even this had to be refused.



A vintage wind-up dancing couple made of celluloid, which apparently also had some paper with it... A booklet or crushed box? Difficult to tell through the display case. It has its charms, but at $32, it was out of my reach. (If they had been nude, well, that would have changed things considerably. *wink*)

However, it should be noted, that had any of the items in the photos been priced to match my meager funds, I would have purchased them, brought them home, taken better photos, and presented them to you with more information and research.

Which all should just be a reminder to you to send me more money. (Support this blog by supporting the advertisers!)

Meanwhile, I, we, just enjoy the window shopping.

The Pleasures of Window Shopping

Deanna at CQ interviewed Marina Bianchi, a professor of economics, regarding collecting and consumerism. It's a fascinating look at consumer choice theory and the role of novelty in consumption & satisfaction, motivations usually left to psychologists & sociologists, I encourage you to read it.

Of course, my personal motivation has always been an interest in history -- or, perhaps more accurately, an interest in anthropology. This is often dismissed by others who view my quest to be purely carnal, so I delighted in the following:

Fundamentally, is there much difference between ‘research’ and ‘collecting’?

I think that between intellectual or scientific research and collecting there are many things in common. In research, as in collecting, we have a frame of reference that provides the organizing guide and that gives shape to problems or challenges and tells us where to look for possible solutions. And also in research the aim is to conquer something new that reshapes one’s organizing framework and opens new paths. But collecting is more playful, light, and pleasurable in every phase. Enjoying your collection is as pleasurable as when you are searching for a new addition to it, and the difficulties you meet only increase the final enjoyment. Buying an already made collection would destroy half the pleasure. Research is more costly in terms of intellectual efforts and discipline, but, yes, the principles are the same!

This is all "reflected" in an antique postcard I purchased in this past weekend's hunting.


In this postcard, a man and woman stand before a large millinery shop window. While she gazes at lovely hats, his gaze is upon a lovely lady on the street (who decadently shows ankle!). The caption reads, "I love my wife, but oh you kid".

While both the man and the woman we presume to be his wife are window shopping, full of wistful longing, we see the inherent joys & motivations of collecting displayed. Each views and desires the novelty of something new, but there is no indication that either finds what they have, be it an old hat or a spouse some might call "old hat", as inferior either. For as Professor Bianchi has said, "each additional item is new and exciting, whether it adds something different within an order or provokes a re-thinking of that order."

A collector "adds to" rather than replaces -- even without the physical action of adding a new item.

As this card shows no action other than thought or desire, it at least suggests (if not proves) that even when one does not increase the size of one's collection through ownership, simply viewing possibilities also adds to one's collection; it adds something to the framework and has us re-thinking the order of things.

And in many cases such "window shopping" increases our satisfaction & pleasure in what we have.

Of Art Nouveau & Sublime Curves

John Coulthart of Feuilleton and I had been discussing my eroticizing specific non-erotic artworks. He suggests it's simply the sublime in the illustrations, the "sinuous Art Nouveau curves"; I believe it may have more to do with something else...

I wrote:

Does anyone else find such illustrative style, and in fact most illustration in fairy tales etc., very erotic? I mean it’s not sexual, and the stories aren’t (necessarily) so either, but something in the epic nature, the good v. evil, combined with the fantastic puts me in such a frame of mind…

Also as noted in my comment, I'm not sure where I'm heading with this train of thought. Even after a discussion with my husband on this (an astute judge not only of art and graphic design, but of 'me' and my thinking), I'm still not much clearer.

I most definitely agree that Art Nouveau is sexy. But I still believe there's something more than just the style at work here.

I'm no closer, really, to being able to articulate what it is I am trying to get at, what I am feeling here... And in part, there's a reason why.

In all honesty, I've put off posting this for quite some time as I'm beginning to think (fear) that all roads lead back to Girlie Town. That somehow, in my mind, there's nothing really to point to other than a romanticism of the classic female variety, for which I feel on the defensive -- as if admitting my gender, created in no small part by (and also in spite of) our pervasive & insidious culture, is some how a fault, a flaw which will haunt me... rendering any past and all future posts to simply the opinions of a girl.

While I cannot be other than what I am (even if in my entitled position of "being in process"), there's something about being stamped A Girl which undermines credibility.

If my eroticism of Art Nouveau is boiled down to the simple "because you're a girl", then it's not only condescending to my gender but to myself personally.

My character, education, experience and opinions (which are a result of all the former things) are suddenly dismissed. I become predictably female and my opinions impotent in such simplicity (even if living as a female is anything but).

It's very much like artist whose work receives the stamp of Pop Culture Favorite. While the focus should be on the fact that the "pop" stands for "popularity", folks deride the value of the work. Ultimately, an artist communicates, and if the message is accepted, becomes popular, then ought not success, real not (only) monetarily, be the stamp given? Yet, the relationship seems to most often be a direct but inversely proportionate one. The more people like it, the less it is respected; as if mass adoration/adoption must equal "watered down" and worthless.

My (perhaps very) female reaction, however complex it might be, to Art Nouveau becomes watered down and worthless by virtue of its very direct relationship to a large number of persons, i.e. the female population. And I don't like it.

Especially when Art Nouveau has the very same sublime curves as I.

I Miss Retro Lesbians

Call me a product of my parent's porno stash (and who isn't?), but I miss the 70's porn. I'm not just saying this for the film quality (vs. video), or the full-length artistic film presentations (and the humor, which I love with all my heart), or even the natural look of men and women with (gasp!) pubic hair, but for the lovely, lingerie wearing, lipstick lesbians.

Like these two, from the Rodox classic gallery (via Sex-Kitten's forum):



Now, even "lesbian" films made for men (and straight women), have harsh looks -- more predatory & slick than soft and beguiling. Today, a faux lesbian flick says "lipstick lesbian" with an all nude babe with dragon-lady fingernails -- which just freak me and my pink parts out. (Even the way they hold their hands to spread labia is completely unnatural in its cautionary approach, almost surgical. :shudder:)

I know it's not particularly pc of me, a straight chick, to complain about lesbian porn -- and I do applaud real lesbian films made for lesbians, which are showing what that audience wants -- but I can't help but miss the old school girlie lipstick lesbians. They were entertaining fantasies for those of us who wanted to dream -- and let me tell you, plenty of women enjoy porn sans men because everything they see they can imagine being done to them. There's no need to service a dude. How relaxing.

And arousing.

It shouldn't be a surprise that a woman who enjoys vintage porn & pinups would feel this way. Not only about the prettiness of the female form, but the tease, including lingerie.

In the 80's, porn made a descent. And not just in terms of video quality and close-ups which (for many of us at least) seem foreign and, I'll say it, yucky for it's lack of mystery & tease (what some would call romance), but for the look and attitudes of the women in it.

In pornos, women stalked for sex. But it wasn't really in the name of "equality", for female viewers could see what was really going on...

She prowled for male and female victims to have her way with -- even her begging for it was a command -- but we women (and sex connoisseurs) know, that she was skipping most of the thrills, the chase and foreplay which gives chills. In short, she was acting out the quickest of male fantasies.

It wasn't purely the fault of porn makers; it was part of the times.

In the 80's the look became either big and predatory &/or cold and distant -- hard muscles, huge helmet hair (or slick 'sharp' hair), suits with shoulder pads to present the female form in the male linebacker triangle -- even the makeup was about looking cold and remote. What's feminine about that?

Sure, we women had to do battle with men in the workplace (and elsewhere), but did we have to look like football players to do it? (Me thinketh this is part of the problem we're still facing today.)

Those who didn't don the professional predator costume wore floral Laura Ashley dresses to match their drapes and tried to move back into the 50's suburbs. They didn't accept, let alone make, porn.

The closest they got to heating up the bedroom was bringing in those matching Laura Ashley sheets fresh from the dryer.

Yeah, most of this is nice, neat, generalizations.

But I don't really care today.

I just miss my lovely lipstick lesbians, with their soft hair, glossy lips, silky lingerie, and tender tease which worked its way to a hardcore frenzy.

Collections: Public Or Private?

Reading of the Center for Sex & Culture's requests for donations (via the SK message boards), I am reminded of several issues.

Personally, I support the center; but like many private collectors, I have mixed emotions on such donations...

It's not just personal greed -- though I readily admit I want stuff! -- I've heard of and seen many smaller museums, centers, 'group collections', organizations etc. fail. And I don't just mean financially in the sense that they fold-up shop; some of them, due to poor funding and training, do not properly care for the items in their collection. And in some cases, people have just up and walked off with goodies they've cherry-picked from the collection (stolen goods cannot be shown to anyone, really). All of which puts objects at risk of permanent loss.

I'm not accusing those with the Center for Sex & Culture of anything here; just allowing the thoughts it prompts to post regarding my mixed emotions and general concerns.

There's an ongoing debate between private, independent collectors and collectives or official museums centered, usually, on the matters of who takes better care of collections, & the public's right to access them.

Often museums view themselves as most trained and prepared for the preservation of items, but in a world of shrinking support for the arts this isn't necessarily so.

Many private collectors do arrange for public viewing of their collections, including lending the collection, in whole or parts, to larger public institutions; even as many organizations and museums relegate items to 'the basement' or other off-limits areas of the institution, rendering them unavailable to the public.

Determining a hard-and-fast rule on what ought to be done is prevented because, as with many things, the decision rests on particulars which vary with individuals and individual organizations. Thus the debate of just 'who should own and collect' continues.

And it brings up several other matters in collecting, pubic access, viewing and ownership.

While your usual artistic fare is available in representation (for example, Monet posters to purchase while the original painting's ownership is not possible), many other artworks & artifacts are not. Some because they are not legally possible to reproduce (copyright ownership issues), others due to budgetary constraints (set up costs for quality work are unobtainable) and even strict restrictions of such things (for example, items willed to a museum with stipulations). And others, such as 'porn', are either deemed in poor taste to do such things with, or with too little buying interest to recoup creation/replication costs.

The Internet has been a boon to such public viewing. Even with censorship (perceived threats and actual actions), it is an opportunity to share as well as research. However, museums and institutions, both large and small, have been among the last to jump in these digital waters.

Partly, this is due to lack of funding -- even a free Blogger blog requires some person to write & post, and a struggling institution may have no one to do such work amidst their other duties. And many volunteers, though interested, are deemed unable simply because they would require supervision and access which diminishes resources.

Largely, however, the matter of not being on the Internet is one of choice.

Having been privy to conversations among museum professionals, it's clear that the matter of entre to the Internet isn't merely a lack of technical ability and understanding, or even funds for such a venture and its staffing needs; it's the simple matter of a lack of understanding the possibility whilst fearing some probability.

Many institutions fear the world wide web's free display of objects & information; the virtual tour will replace the physical visit and it's at-the-door fees -- which are required to support the physical space & persons required to maintain the collection. For organizations which document not only the marvels of technological advances but the fearful cultural responses to these advances is not merely ironic, it's rather sad.

They cannot claim ignorance while they house exhibits dedicated to such things as the story of - and reaction to -- the cotton gin. Or, for a more easily digested comparison, the invention of the television and the groups which feared the tube.

On argument against TV was the fear that it would destroy families, morals, and country with its passive and/or inappropriate programing; this is the anti-culture argument which many professional collecting organizations talk about. It is a two-fold argument. A), having an Internet presence is not only equal to encouraging people not to really experience the arts and interact with community and the world at large with visits to museums, performances, etc. B), such participation in the web is tantamount to assisting in the vast amounts of misinformation which exists 'out here'.

The motion picture studios feared the smaller private screen would trump the larger public experience and put them out of business; this is lack of asses in the paid for seats is exactly what museums fear will be the end of their own industry.

Clearly, in any of these arguments, there is a complete lack of understanding of marketing & audience -- and even of mission.

The huge numbers of historical sites -- from those dedicated to the smallest details of a particular item, time period or person, to the largest more all-encompassing portals -- should only serve to comfort museums, libraries and organizations that there is a hunger for what they offer. Their audience, volunteers, members and even deep-pockets of financial support await them here.

The best way to combat misinformation -- from the ignorant mistakes of the passionate to the mean-spirited zealots who wish to control & use information -- is to participate in the conversations which are already in progress. Put up a site, blog your collection piece by piece, and comment at other blogs and communities. Even if time and budget limits your ability to comment/correct every blogging Joe and Josephine who is missing the facts, your accurate information coupled with your official status as the organization with both artifact and historian, means there is valid information for those who do research.

And then there are the countless possibilities of finding experts, authors, & items.

In the end, any institution or organization with an active presence is likely to garner the attention it wishes -- including more paid admissions and donations. I myself am more likely to visit places, near and far, which I know have the items I am interested in if I am able to see and read of them, knowing that knowledgeable, passionate staff -- and visible objects await me. Ditto any other support (from donations to blog posts).

When it comes to the topic of 'smut collections' and sex history, I must also admit that I see little to convince me that this category won't be the first area to be negatively affected by funding cuts, diminished or invisible display area, curating efforts, and to be under appreciated in general. It's largely why other organizations which began dedicated to this part of our history have failed -- too little public support and outcry in favor of such acquisitions, care & funding while the nay-sayers speak loudly & carry big sticks to punish such sinners.

Countless headlines speak of art museums moving 'offensive' classic artworks from public view, and the world goes on as if this is no big loss. Each one of these cases is used to leverage the next censored public display & so on & so on until one has to wonder just when and where those objects and works will be seen again... Not to mention, wonder just what the hell is going on.

When sex history collections are in private hands, there is little threat from public outcry -- at least while the collector is alive. But then, any decent collector of indecent collectibles will have made proper arrangements through their estate. (I myself am open to receipt of & care for such collections, should no other situation avail itself.)

Given that I have A) a low tolerance for museums and organizations which either resist the Internet or create only static pamphlet-like websites, B) know of so many private collectors who are willing to share their collection and knowledge, and C) see little institutional dedication to sex in terms of a strong public stance against ignorant public outcry (even the Kinsey Institute is too damn quiet these days), I'm more inclined to resist donations to groups and museums.

At least until I see a willingness to share (images and information) and participate (in conversations and study) despite & in spite of censorship calls.

Film On Flesh

In Gracie's review of John & Mary (1969), there are images from the film of one of those gosh-darn-cool-big-city parties where those naughty artistic folks projected film onto live nude girls a female nude.


I've not seen the film (yet), but have, naturally, heard-tell of such things. When I read/saw the John & Mary review, I was reminded that I'd recently stumbled upon some more recent projection photographs and I realized something... Why I had not thought much of them.

I then tried to retrace my Internet-steps, which was not easy. I couldn't find the original photographer's website -- and I searched, doggedly, for over an hour, with no luck (which made this female bitchy). Instead, I offer you this: The Living Canvas.



What strikes me, when I think of those radical retro artsy projection parties, is the fleeting nature of moving images upon flesh -- which also moves. You have the magic of something seen on, by not felt by, the model/canvas/person. You have the ephemeral quality of it all happening in moments, and then it's gone.

It's titillating, transitory... Arousing and alive. And then it's over. No matter how young, ripe and lush the body, the life, the party or event, everything ends. Only to live on in memories and flashbacks, I suppose.

I 'get' the performance, be it the old or artsy party or the new theatrical event; but the photographs seem to loose something. What they 'gain' in ability to keep, they loose in luster. The very stillness of the human form, the lack of movement, even subtle breathing, puts the matter of 'alive' into question and the moment saved is really not the moment at all.

When performance, however subtle, is replaced by a pose, it's just film on film.

No longer is the flesh really a part of the image at all.

And for me, the thrill is gone.

All That Flickrs

I'm not much of a fan of Flickr -- far too many folks uploading stuff without information, credits, or even keywords/tags/labels which make much sense (whatever sense folksonomy can make). And I see far too many 'sexy self-portraits' which are anything but. I keep searching for every now and then I find something interesting, such as a collection of risque magazines, pulp book covers, photos of burlesque dancers, or something vintage & smutty with enough information to be either useful or intriguing.

Then a light shines.

I found Joey Harrison's set titled Mom's World. It's absolutely stunning.

Currently 232 photos are in this set. They are excellent photographs, mostly black and white, capturing a time and its sentimentality. While the old axiom that a picture is worth a thousand words is likely true, I find one of the most charming aspects of Harrison's Flickr set is the text commentary by Harrison's mom.

Clearly his mother is an intelligent, articulate women, with a warm sense of humor; this is easy to see in the photos she has taken as well as the photographs taken of her. But along with the commentary I find a thoughtful emotional component which endears. It's not the usual "remember when" that you'll find with many who page through their photo albums; it's not a mere analytical comparison of 'then and now' either. There is something more fierce yet elusive to define in her narrative... These are not simply quaint photos with typical anecdotes.

I first stumbled upon the photo set seeing this photo of 'mom' in her darkroom in 1949.

Something about the polished white jacket spoke of a determination & a professionalism that added complexity to an old photo of a pretty woman developing photos. (Her attire is explained as being her uniform for work at a doctor's office, of which you can see/read about circumcision, and other tales of medicine of the day.)

Clicking to see a larger view, I was naturally curious about the photo in the photo -- of what seemed to be a scantily clad beauty. So I read the comments:

I painted the room a dark rosy red and made traverse draperies of black to cover the one window. It was a warm womb for long Saturday afternoons with the Met playing softly on the radio. I totally lost track of time with the birthing of amazing black-and-white photos. Each was a miracle, over and over again. I'm as fascinated with them today as I was 56 years ago.

There was a small downside. As relatives and friends learned of my hobby they would press exposed rolls upon me to develop. I did a few. Oh, it was agony! Drudgery! Dreary, repetitive, unartful, bland photos. (Long before automatic cameras made even dumb photos at least in focus and properly exposed!)

Not all of the requests were refused. Jerry, smirking a little, produced a roll given him by his young brother Tony, who worked in a neighborhood beer store. Tony asked that I pul-eeze develop a roll for him. He'd been my booster since I met him as the 14-year-old son of my landlady, and he carefully kept track of telephone calls for me. His roll had been shot in the back room of the beer store of ladies of questionable reputation and groping young men, who were not exactly Ivy League! There wasn't any nudity, but a lot of hormones flowed! The props and background were strictly cases of beer. It would be pretty tame stuff by today's standards. But the photos were quite funny actually. If I can locate a negative later, I will share.

On another occasion Jerry produced a roll given him in strictest confidence by a handsome and successful young businessman in Grand Rapids, his customer. He implored Jerry to be absolutely discreet with the photos and negatives. I took it seriously and developed and printed the roll, all full of admiration for the beautiful photos and didn't keep a single one. Jerry then yielded the tasteful prints to his customer.

They were of a gorgeous young woman totally in the buff, posed 16 different ways. For many years, when seeing the handsome man on billboards touting his business, I would get a secret tickle. He married the girl and they raised a large Catholic family.

The 4x5 I am pulling out of the fixer in the photo above showing a gal in her black bra, was Rose Bottegal, the wife of Jerry's Army buddy Aldo. He and Rose visited us in 1949, and while on the water in a rowboat on a steaming day, Rose shed her blouse. Wearing just her bra, she said "Just make believe this is a swimming suit top."

If the photo drew me, the commentary mesmerized me.

I continued to visit all 232 posts, finding each as interesting as the next for one reason or another. Here we see in photographs & ephemera covering life in the late 40's and early 50's -- in that post WWII world where America was headed for suburbia and the nuclear family, where women were to return to a domesticity which has moved generations of women such as myself to moaning and retching.

Yet what emerges is far less threatening -- if far more emotional.




Seeing proof of women chasing men in this time and place:


The marriage and transformation to wife, including the wedding night:

This could just as well have been captioned "Our Wedding Night or How a Bad Photo Resulted in a Lifetime Hobby!"

Jerry's German camera turned out maddeningly random good or bad photos. Of course it was because we didn't know about setting it for distance, let alone shutter speed and f-stop. We posed this morning after our wedding in front of the hotel where we spent the first night of our married life. The picture turned out so badly I was motivated later to take the camera to a store to learn how to operate it and was sold a light meter. The rest is history: the beginning of better photos and a lifetime hobby.

In the hotel room on our wedding night Jerry suggested I bathe first. Avoiding his eyes, I took a few things from a small suitcase into the bathroom: nightgown, toothbrush, and little round plastic box from Dotty's doctor.

What a long day; it felt like it had been two or three. The shower was refreshing and good. I donned the nightgown Dotty gave me at a wedding shower. The delicate tea-rose rayon fell to the floor, skimming the body lightly, bias cut following all of the curves and hollows, wide lace panels defining upper areas. It was chaste but alluring I decided, viewing a mirrored image. Then panic struck.

How would I get from bathroom to bed?

I fidgeted there in the bathroom, trying to figure this out. I wasn't used to parading around in front of men in a nightgown. Suddenly in great relief I noticed my blue satin raincoat hung on the inside of the bathroom door, and put it on over my nightgown. I crept out to the bed shyly and quickly slipped under the sheets, raincoat and all. Jerry smiled slightly and went into the bathroom himself.

The first big hurdle in married life had been met and resolved. I shed the raincoat while Jerry showered; soon he joined me under the sheets. Appropriate events ensued.

Falling in and out of favor with his relatives:

In this 1950 photo we were at a bar owned by Jerry's cousin Al Cimarelli and his wife, Jenny. See the "modern" shape of the bar and the chrome barstools. The seats were surely upholstered in dark red vinyl!

Attending a PSA (Photographic Society of America) convention in Detroit the following year with photographer friends from Grand Rapids, we heard a lecture by Olga Irish, a Brooklyn portrait photographer. She chose me from the audience to come on stage and be used to demonstrate her lighting techniques – fully dressed of course. The next day the Detroit Free Press carried an article about the convention with a large photo of me posing, and all hell broke loose. One of the cousins was appointed to phone Jerry to enquire about my being in Detroit without him, staying in a hotel, not phoning them, etc., etc., all a bad thing in the eyes of these very decent, family-oriented relatives. Jerry wasn't exercising control. I lost favor fast.

The worry and wonder (now) of what happened to Anne:

That’s Jerry’s Uncle Jim holding his son, another Jerry, on his lap. His wife, Anne, sits in the middle. They spent that evening at our apartment, but we didn't see a lot of them. Anne was a little special, and she had spunk. She was quite pretty, dressed nicely, was animated, imaginative, and intelligent. She had talked Uncle Jim into changing the vowel at the end of their name to make it seem less Italian.

Their life changed drastically when Uncle Jim discovered she was having a romance. Jerry told me, "Uncle Jim got rid of her right away. That day." Indeed, she disappeared from sight and conversation. There's so much left wanting here that I want to scream. A child raised without his mother. A woman probably impoverished overnight. Was she so guilt-ridden she didn't seek legal help? Was she so fear-filled and accustomed to that kind of "justice" she simply accepted it? Hers is the saddest story I know. I should say "theirs."

From brunette to blonde...



A baby, our 'Flickr guy,' Joey.

All made more bittersweet with the knowledge that this pretty amateur photographer wife and her handsome younger husband would divorce... No matter how much fun it looked like they had together.


And that one day, the cute baby boy in these photos would upload the story and the images here, to this fantasy digital world unimagined then, to be shared by us all.

The Happiness Of Context

As the blog header states: this isn't just smut here, it's sex history. And in order to have better historical perspective you need to understand the time, the place, and the culture of that time and place for 'culture' varies. For example, 1955 New York was not the same as 1955 Nebraska and neither were the same as 1955 Sweden or 1955 Angola (which were not alike themselves) -- even if, to you smut-hounds, the breasts look deliciously the same. (Similarly exotic, enticingly differing breasts may not necessarily be an indication of differing cultures.)

I've written before on the importance of context, either anecdotally or with entire posts such as Context Is The New Bullshit, and if you haven't let that sink into your brains please take a moment to do so; this post will help with that. If you share this love of history in context, then you'll just enjoy this post all the more.

One of the best ways to glean a general overview of times and places, especially with Western cultures, is via newspapers and magazines.

For example, look at 1955 Fargo-Moorhead newspapers. There, along with the news of the day (such as "Yogi Could Be 'Great'" and the odd news item regarding the police's possession of woman's lingerie), and the ads promising pork loin at 39 cents a pound and the debut of the 1956 "PowerStyle" Chrysler, you find old advertisements for films.

In this case, thanks to Deanna (aka Pop Tart) & her husband, Derek (aka Azrael Brown) who wrote the article at Collectors' Quest on the 1955 newspaper & sent me the scan (I love it when collectors share info!), we see this ad for One Summer of Happiness:


This Swedish film, based on the novel Sommardansen by Per Olof Ekström, was originally titled Hon dansade en sommar and was directed by Arne Mattsson after the producer decided he didn't want to "risk Ingmar Bergman's 'Neurotic Vulgarity,' and fired him".

The film starred Folke Sundquist and Ulla Jacobsson as teenage lovers who meet on a farm -- complete with a short outdoor nude swimming scene and "unambiguously implied coitus, minor aspects on which most Swedish critics did not bother to comment in their reviews of its premiere in Stockholm in December 1951."

The film went on to win awards and recognition. Time for sex in Sweden: enhancing the myth of the "Swedish sin" during the 1950s:

For that matter, the sexual aspects drew little attention when Hon dansade en sommar won the coveted Golden Bear award and received more popular approval than any other entry in the Berlin Film Festival the following June (see "Tag" and "Festspiel"). Its score also won a secondary prize that year at the Cannes Film Festival, where it was shown under the title Elle n'a danse qu'un seul ete (see Magnan). Reviews in several European countries were favorable and in some cases definitely enthusiastic. In the United Kingdom, however, One Summer of Happiness was not allowed to be shown until 1953, and in some parts of the United States of America local authorities forbade it entirely.

Once again, the prudes enter the arena and are upset by a little bit of boob. OK, so it likely mattered that it was a story of teen boob; but only the idiot kind of boobs throw out storyline and cinema for a bare breast.

My first thought upon seeing the ad was, "Hell, they had Roxys in Fargo?!" and then, vaguely remembering this film was 'notoriously naughty', I wondered how it had been allowed in theatres in such a conservative, rural, place as 1950's Fargo-Moorhead.

Was I engaging once again in "rampant presentism"? (I love tossing that comment from brave 'anonymous' in now and then; forgive me.) Perhaps I seem to be. But any good or decent historian or anthropologist will allow such reactions -- they are a natural part of human reaction -- and then examine them. To acknowledge my limited experience, knowledge & thought doesn't mean I have to stay stuck in it.

While some places were upset by the film (see info on the 1954 Memorandum of the New York State Education Department regarding this film), places I'd imagined more 'small town' (both in terms of selling tickets and the proverbial closeted attitude) were less likely to make a stink over the film. (Actually, over time the opposite picture is emerging and I'm beginning to see that larger cities are often the ones more inclined to raise such legislative stink -- but that's another musing.)

Now I know that not everyone in 'the charming conservative Midwest' was as prudish in the 50's as I had stereotyped. Point taken; lesson learned.

Related:

For more on this film, in Swedish film context, see Swedish Film 1946-1960.

For a more anecdotal look at how a bit of boob in One Summer of Happiness affected a teenage boy in the 1950's, read a confession in More Nostalgia From the Innocent 1950's: Those Adult Movies.

Of Lust, Loss, Film Stars & Humor (Or, Get Me On Vince's Bus)

What I am about to discuss is a rare look into the personal life of Silent Porn Star. I do not offer it as a gratuitous glimpse of myself, but rather to illustrate the complexity of arousal and the uniqueness of celebrity status.

I have a personal fetish for a man simply because he looks a lot like one of my former lovers. This lover is now deceased. He died of a brain tumor nearly a dozen years ago. Our stormy relationship, messy separation and short-lived reunion at the time of his diagnosis (further confusing because of his choices in how to spend his time before he died) has always played tricks with my mind. Perhaps our ages have something do with this -- not just his 'too young to die' status, but my own immaturity in how to deal with it. The result is that he is not dead to me.

Instead, he lingers like any long lost lover; in the echoes of my mind he is forever frozen as he was, at the age and appearance of our last interlude, yet he remains alive, wandering about, living his life without me somewhere... The proof that I so believe this is cemented in my hell-hath-no-furry-like-a-woman-scorned anger at the thought of him -- until I remember that he's actually dead. Then I pause, trying to grapple with that fact. I rarely succeed in a real acknowledgment of this. It's an old wound, and very deep; and my denial is only apparently stronger with time.

I do not dream of this man, as some do in -- I think -- similar cases, nor think of him unprompted. However, my breath is taken away with the sight of this man -- or, more factually, the sight of this man who looks so much like him.

And it's not just that this man looks so much like him, but his voice, his humor, and even his mannerisms are so similar that I nearly cry, "Doppelgänger!"

Yet I swoon, all over again.

This celebrity who has the fated position of my fascination is Vince Vaughn, who is all over the news for the much anticipated and now released Vince Vaughn's Wild West Comedy Show; a film which, if the trailers are to believed, has my former lover 'written all over it' in terms of humor.


When I watch Vince, I am transported into some fantasy world where my lover is alive and even available for me. I am transported to the days when his arm rested around my shoulders & our laughter rang in my ears -- and, this time, I'm able to lay his darkness to rest in the security of my love. Vince is 'him' and 'he' is Vince. All is well here in this dream. (Even when this general non-celebrity caring girl will occasionally want to kick Jennifer Aniston's ass.)

Does it make me a bad person to flock to Vince's films because I long to pretend that he is my now-dead lover? If it does, then what I do at home to the Vince Vaughn movie rentals & DVD viewing is certainly not to be forgiven. Because, yes, I take the fantasies much further than anything Vince has done on screen.

Sure, Vince is the proverbial tall, dark & handsome. And he's funny. I obviously have a weakness for all of that. I'd like to believe I'd be a fan even if he didn't resemble my former love; but there's no way to know for sure now. He does; and I do.

It doesn't hurt that Dwight Yoakam is also in the film. While I'm not really a modern country music fan, Yoakam's Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose was one of songs I listened to (over & over again) during one of the many break-ups I'd had in that stormy relationship with the man who looked like Vaughn. Talk about your sentimental journey.

The fact that Wild West is a big party boy production, with men being men (read: testosterone fest), means there will be plenty more than just eye candy and my sentiments. Heaven help me, I love men, even at their pull-my-finger worst; but witty men? :swoon: Oh, how I'd love to have been on the tour bus -- flirting with them all, including Vince. (And if he dared to spurn me, Dwight can always sing Turn Me Loose again.)


(No, I won't discuss how Justin Long fits into all of this; I'll just note that he matters too.)

All I can say is that I hope to get to Vince Vaughn's Wild West Comedy Show -- but if I don't, I'll be buying the DVD release and adding it to my private viewing pile for many a stay-home and, ah, 'snuggle' night with the Wild West boys.


My point is, that 'celebrity', 'fame', and 'sex icon' status are awards not always given for tangibles which can be counted on. PR machines cannot create them; the people and personas themselves must touch us in some way. Just how they touch us is not always known. I doubt highly that somewhere in America right now there is a focus group dedicated to deciding the next leading male in film based upon his drawing power with female film watchers who've lost a lover to death. (A film, maybe; but not an actor's looks.)

The esoteric 'it' factor can't always be defined, let alone manipulated into marketing. But they still try. Even if only shoot enough would-bes at the wall and see who sticks.

I remember when as a young teen, Tiger Beat et all tried to foist Leif Garret upon us. Yeah, I loved Peter Lundy And The Medicine Hat Stallion (what young girl didn't love a horsey movie?) but I didn't fall for Leif. Peter Lundy? Maybe. However my crush didn't transfer to Leif.

Even when a friend won tickets from the local radio station to attend a Leif Garret concert, the three of us stood there chanting, "Dead!" whenever the other girls yelled, "We want Leif!" (So it was, "We want Leif dead!" --because we were clever, clever teenage girls -- gone wild!)

Perhaps if Leif resembled someone I had attachment to, he would have had a better shot. But his non-threatening white boy status (what marketers continue to thrust at the girls today) just didn't mean a damn thing to me.

While the giant PR machines try to sell us our fantasies and create celebrities they can profit from, there still is no formula they can rely on. And all of this is equally true for the stars of our pornographic dreams. It's not enough to have a big attribute & a pretty face; we want something more. And what that 'something more' is will vary so greatly that it's difficult to make a marketing equation based upon it.

Who could predict that Marilyn Monroe would have more 'it' than Jayne Mansfield? Who can say why Bettie Page lives on while millions of others have not? Who would have known that Parker Stevenson would succeed where Leif Garret failed?

Or just how & why Vince Vaughn will make a grown woman groan.

Public Viewing Of Vintage Nude

Another slide found in a box of vintage men's magazines, this one is clearly a snap of a magazine page (Body Beautiful, 1955).


At first I thought the idea of photographing a magazine page rather odd... After all, if you have the magazine, why make a copy of it -- and one which isn't exactly subtle viewing?

I imagined a man, alone in his bachelor pad, preferring to project copies of naked photos on his screen (or wall) rather than turning the pages of the magazines; and it didn't make much sense. Neither did images of him inviting his buddies over for a night of naughty slide shows -- even if such commercial slide sets were available.

Well, OK, maybe this was like stag films; a private party event with semi-public viewing of risque & nude slides... Perhaps this magazine photo was a favorite and needed to be included in the show?

But the idea of such naughty boys' nights 'in' just seems strange to me.

Perhaps it's our current closeted ideas of sex which render the idea so unfamiliar... Even strip clubs seem less popular than ever, with more and more city ordinances (in all the cities and states I've lived in for the past decade) cracking down, removing licenses, and generally just saying 'no' to adult entertainment. So wrapping my mind about such lurid group viewing seems odd...

And then it hit me.

Like any collector -- like this collector -- the original owner produced this content for public viewing, for sharing. This vintage slide, a copy of a magazine page, was produced with the intent to be shown off, with pride, to anyone who'd care to see it. Just as I do with this blog.

The slide show was that guy's blog.

The Trix Rabbit Was A Penis Bearing Trickster

Upon learning that the Trix Rabbit "is probably the most striking example of a cereal trickster who closely follows the mythic conventions of the North American tricksters in particular," I began to ponder "tricksters" again.

In case you are too lazy to click the above link (tsk tsk), here's some info from Tricksters and the Marketing of Breakfast Cereals, by Thomas Green, The Journal of Popular Culture (Volume 40, Issue 1, Page 49-68, February, 2007) that you'll need to keep along with the class:

In his basic form, the Trix Rabbit resembles mythical trickster figures in that he is an anthropomorphized animal, like the hare trickster Wakjunkaga. He exhibits the insatiable hunger typical of Wakjunkaga, but not for foods typically associated with rabbits. He desires only the Trix brand breakfast cereal, and is willing to cheat and deceive in order to get it. In the early days of Trix, the variations on the specific disguise that the Rabbit adopted were still closely identified with the plot premise: He was attempting to appear as something other than a rabbit, so a little old lady or astronaut disguise would do. In more recent years the disguises have begun to take on the form of whatever the advertisers perceive as popular with kids at the time, so in the 1980s the Rabbit disguised himself as a breakdancer, and, most recently, a karaoke singer. In any case, the Rabbit is using these disguises, to appear more human than rabbit, which emphasizes the way in which the Trix Rabbit most closely corresponds to the archetypal Radin/Jung trickster.

Jung, in particular, theorized, in a now largely discounted but still interesting way, that the trickster figure represents the psychological state of humanity making the transition from animal to human. Using Radin's description of Wakjunkaga as a touchtone, Jung describes the trickster cycle as demonstrating how the trickster gradually comes to greater levels of control over his selfish, predatory, animalistic impulses—associated with animal physical forms such as the hare, the coyote, and the raven. In this way, according to Jung, Radin's trickster evolves into a thereomorphic culture hero who sacrifices himself to give gifts to humankind, which is the hallmark of humanity in this scheme (144).

But what Green doesn't tell you may put your breakfast cereal in a whole new red light.

Paul Radin, who Green mentioned, was an anthropologist who focused mainly on folk literature and religion among Native Americans (among others) and wrote The Trickster: A Study in American Indian Mythology. This initial trickster treatise was published in 1955 after studying Winnebago myths.

Of this work, Karin Glinden writes Trickster:

The Winnebago Trickster cycle of forty-nine stories is central in his book, The Trickster and is the most referenced trickster figure of his writings by subsequent students of Native American tricksters. According to Radin the translation of the tricky one in a Siouan language of the Winnebago is wakdjunkaga; accordingly this specific trickster cycle is also known as the Wakdjunkaga Trickster cycle.

(Please note, there are several spellings of wakdjunkaga (Green used "wakjunkaga" and I've also seen "Wisakejak" & "Wisakedjak" for the Cree trickster.)

Among the forty nine stories are the story of Wakdjunkaga taking his extremely large and weighty penis from the box off his back where he carries it to send it across the river to impregnate a chief's daughter and the story of the talking laxative bulb consumed by the trickster resulting in effluent scatological comedies.

According to Glinden, Radin concludes his study by saying:

The overwhelming majority of all so-called trickster myths in North America give an account of the creation of the earth, or at least the transforming of the world, and have a hero who is always wandering, who is always hungry, who is not guided by normal conceptions of good or evil, who is either playing tricks on people of having them played on him and who is highly sexed. Almost everywhere he has some divine traits. These vary from tribe to tribe. In some instances he is regarded as an actual deity, in others as intimately connected with deities, in still others he is at best a generalized animal or human being subject to death (155).

But the effluent scatological comedy plot thickens... as Glinden writes:

Trickster myths are found in nine of the eleven Native American Regions (Hynes 3). Koshare, Koyemshi, and Neweke are trickster clowns of the Pueblo people who display wanton voracity, sexual and otherwise, but are confined to ritual ceremonies (Leeming 46). Other common animal-person tricksters besides the Hare and Spider are the Raven and Coyote. "Coyote…easily the favorite…crosses tribal boundaries with as much ease as he crosses moral and social ones. He exists is the West from Alaska to the great deserts, he is everywhere on the Great Plains, and he ranges even to the East Coast"(Leeming 48). Coyote is often a teacher by counter-example as he employs base human traits including lying, cheating, and sexual misconduct.

It should be noted at this time that tricksters are not really thought of as shape-shifters; they may have the ability, but the key is that the trickster is disguised, just as the Trix Rabbit, in order to fool or expose foolish things. Trickster may fool, be fooled, but he also teaches; this is his purpose.

Also, the trickster is not male or female but rather is genderless meaning that a trickster may be of any gender -- but they are not Two Spirit People, expressing the gender continuum.

While a trickster may appear as any gender, most often they are depicted as male. This is for two reasons.

One, in stories where the lesson lies in sexual misconduct the male member is most useful -- nothing illustrates sexual impulsivity like a penis!

The other reason lies in cultural constructs which allows and disallows freedoms based upon gender. In Transformation Of The Trickster, Helen Lock writes of the cultural situationality of trickster gender:

...both Landay and Jeanne Rosier Smith, in Writing Tricksters: Mythic Gambols in American Ethnic Literature (1997), which focuses on women writers, make the crucial point that tricksters are culturally specific. In the patriarchal societies that produced the archetypal tricksters Hyde discusses, the very qualities that enabled the trickster to operate belonged culturally to men, or, as Landay puts it, “[I]n a sexist society, the male trickster clearly has the advantages of masculinity: mobility, autonomy, power, safety” (2). These advantages are in themselves gender-neutral, but are gendered by cultural association. Trickster is not gendered—only cultural perceptions of the freedom and mobility necessary to be trickster. Thus, premodern tricksters were imagined as primarily masculine, though with gender-changing abilities, while the alchemical age saw Mercurius as fully hermaphroditic (representing also the “female aspects of matter” [Nicholl 32] as part of his elusive ambiguity), but gave this transformative spirit the masculine name of the god whose powers they perceived it to embody; and now, particularly in modern Western literature and culture (although such figures abound elsewhere, also), Landay and Smith find many female trickster figures, from Toni Morrison’s Pilate to Catwoman. Each age redefines the trickster it needs, as the boundaries of the possible, in this case for women, continue to shift; and although Hyde may be right that there are no modern tricksters in the sense of the archaic archetype that depended on a world of polytheism, it seems more appropriate to say that tricksters have always resisted the confinement of archetype, and modify and transform it whenever a new age gives them a chance.

Speaking of new age...

I find it interesting that there are a number of tarot cards which feature Coyote Trickster. On one hand, this is due to a popular resurgence of interest with Native American culture, sometimes on a more pop level than a scholarly one. But it certainly makes sense that tricksters would hold an appeal to those who like to deal with symbols, including not only authors but those who use tarot cards.

There is something fascinating about the mutability of tricksters which easily lends to twists, modifications and new or different interpretation. My Daughter of the Moon Tarot, a very female centric tarot deck of Dianic Wiccan principals, offers a Coyotewoman card which is optional to use rather than the Pan card (the only male card in the deck -- and a positive male energy card).





It was, strangely, this Coyotewoman card which made me once obsessed with tricksters.

Which is not surprising, given my Judeo-Christian up-bringing. From Glinden again:

Taking note of this is to underline a fundamental difference in the psyches of Native and non Native Americans. Inherent in Christian mythology is the concept of tragedy as one can fall from a rigidly defined sense of order. When there is no coherent order to fall from, rather a creation birthed from paradox that is inclusive of both sacred and profane, there is no tragedy. Tricksters bring instead comedy, a communal adhesive.

Oral stories were told for specific reasons within the separate cultures of Native Americans; the revered storyteller tailored the story while speaking to distinct people of the group being addressed. It is difficult to ascertain the full extent of the messages from these historic trickster stories as they were respectfully told to and altered for the people they were told to, which also accounts for the myths' mutability. However, the trickster is prevalent in contemporary Native American literature. The messages are apropos in light of the movement of Native Americans to deconstruct old stereotypes of American Indians and renew a vital consciousness about their identities and clearly accessible to the contemporary reader.

For more on tricksters, see the Introduction to Native American Tricksters by K. L. Nichols.

Image credits: Image of coyote and stars by Layne Miller, via.

Fanny Brice, Al Jolson & The Seven Lively Arts

As promised in part one, more on Fanny Brice (with a generous dollop of Al Jolson).





This from the The Seven Lively Arts, by Gilbert Seldes, this is The Daemonic in the American Theatre (pages 191-200).

ONE man on the American stage, and one woman, are possessed--Al Jolson and Fanny Brice. Their daemons are not of the same order, but together they represent all we have of the Great God Pan, and we ought to be grateful for it. For in addition to being more or less a Christian country, America is a Protestant community and a business organization-and none of these units is peculiarly prolific in the creation of daemonic individuals. We can bring forth Roosevelts--dynamic creatures, to be sure; but the fury and the exultation of Jolson is a hundred times higher in voltage than that of Roosevelt; we can produce courageous and adventurous women who shoot lions or manage construction gangs and remain pale beside the extraordinary "cutting loose" of Fanny Brice.

To say that each of these two is possessed by a daemon is a mediaeval and perfectly sound way of expressing their intensity of action. It does not prove anything-not even that they are geniuses of a fairly high rank, which in my opinion they are. I use the word possessed because it connotes a quality lacking elsewhere on the stage, and to be found only at moments in other aspects of American life-in religious mania, in good jazz bands, in a rare outbreak of mob violence. The particular intensity I mean is exactly what you do not see at a baseball game, but may at a prize fight, nor in the productions of David Belasco, nor at a political convention; you may see it on the Stock Exchange and you can see it, canalized and disciplined, but still intense, in our skyscraper architecture. It was visible at moments in the old Russian Ballet.

In Jolson there is always one thing you can be sure of: that whatever he does he does at the highest possible pressure. I do not mean that one gets the sense of his effort, for his work is at times the easiest seeming, the most effortless in the world. Only he never saves up-for the next scene, or the next week, or the next show. His generosity is extravagant; he flings into a comic song or three-minute impersonation so much- energy, violence, so much of the totality of one human being, that you feel it would suffice for a hundred others. In the days when the runway was planked down the centre of every good theatre in America, this galvanic little figure, leaping and shouting--yet always essentially dancing and singing--upon it was the concentration of our national health and gaiety. In Row, Row, Row he would bounce up on the runway, propel himself by imaginary oars over the heads of the audience, draw equally imaginary slivers from the seat of his trousers, and infuse into the song something wild and roaring and insanely funny. The very phonograph record of his famous Toreador song is full of vitality. Even in later days when the programme announces simply "Al Jolson" (about 10.15 P.M. in each of his reviews) he appears and sings and talks to the audience and dances off-and when he has done more than any other ten men, he returns and, blandly announcing that "You ain't heard nothing yet," proceeds to do twice as much again. He is the great master of the one-man show because he gives so much while he is on that the audience remains content while he is off-and his electrical energy almost always develops activity in those about him.

If it were necessary, a plea could be made for violence per se in the American theatre, because everything tends to prettify and restrain, and the energy of the theatre is dying out. But Jolson, who lacks discipline almost entirely, has other qualities besides violence. He has an excellent baritone voice, a good ear for dialect, a nimble presence, and a distinct sense of character. Of course it would be impossible not to recognize him the moment he appears on the stage; of course he is always Jolson-but he is also always Gus and always Inbad the Porter, and always Bombo. He has created a way of being for the characters he takes on; they live specifically in the mad world of the Jolson show; their wit and their bathos are singularly creditable characteristics of themselves-not of Jolson. You may recall a scene I think the show was called Dancing Around - in which a lady knocks at the door of a house. From within comes the voice of Jolson singing, "You made me love you, I didn't wanna do it, I didn't wanna do it"--the voice approaches, dwindles away, resumes -- it is a swift characterization of the lazy servant coming to open the door and ready to insult callers, since the master is out. Suddenly the black face leaps through the doorway and cries out, "We don' want no ice," and is gone. Or Jolson as the black slave of Columbus, reproached by his master for a long absence. His lips begin to quiver, his chin to tremble; the tears are approaching, when his human independence softly asserts itself and he wails, "We all have our moments." It is quite true, for Jolson's technique is the exploitation of these moments; he has himself said that he is the greatest master of hokum in the business, and in the theatre the art of hokum is to make each second count for itself, to save any moment from dulness by the happy intervention of a slap on the back, or by jumping out of character and back again, or any other trick. For there is no question of legitimacy here-everything is right if it makes 'em laugh.

He does more than make 'em laugh; he gives them what I am convinced is a genuine emotional effect ranging from the thrill to the shock. I remember coming home after eighteen months in Europe, during the war, and stepping from the boat to one of the first nights of Sinbad. The spectacle of Jolson's vitality had the same quality as the impression I got from the New York sky line-one had forgotten that there still existed in the world a force so boundless, an exaltation so high, and that anyone could still storm Heaven with laughter and cheers. He sang on that occasion 'N Everything and Swanee. I have suggested elsewhere that hearing him sing Swanee is what book reviewers and young girls loosely call an experience. I know what Jolson does with false sentiment; here he was dealing with something which by the grace of George Gershwin came true, and there was no necessity for putting anything over. In the absurd black-face which is so little negroid that it goes well with diversions in Yiddish accents, Jolson created image after image of longing, and his existence through the song was wholly in its rhythm.

Five years later I heard Jolson in a second-rate show, before an audience listless or hostile, sing this out dated and forgotten song, and create again, for each of us seated before him, the same image-and saw also the tremendous leap in vitality and happiness which took possession of the audience as he sang it. It was marvelous. In the first weeks of Sinbad he sang the words of 'N Everything as they are printed. Gradually (I saw the show in many phases) he interpolated, improvised, always with his absolute sense of rhythmic effect; until at the end it was a series of amorous cries and shouts of triumph to Eros. I have heard him sing also the absurd song about "It isn't raining rain, It's raining violets" and remarked him modulating that from sentimentality into a conscious bathos, with his gloved fingers flittering together and his voice rising to absurd fortissimi and the general air of kidding the piece.

He does not generally kid his Mammy songs-as why should he who sings them better than anyone else? He cannot underplay anything, he lacks restraint, and he leans on the second-rate sentiment of these songs until they are forced to render up the little that is real in them. I dislike them and dislike his doing them-as I dislike Belle Baker singing Elie, Elie! But it is quite possible that my discomfort at these exhibitions is proof of their quality. They and a few very cheap jokes and a few sly remarks about sexual perversions are Jolson's only faults. They are few. For a man who has, year after year, established an intimate relation with no less than a million people, every twelvemonth, he is singularly uncorrupted. That relation is the thing which sets him so far above all the other one-manshow stars. Eddie Cantor gives at times the effect of being as energetic; Wynn is always and Tinney sometimes funnier. But no one else, except Miss Brice, so holds an audience in the hollow of the hand. The hand is steady; the audience never moves. And on the great nights when everything is right, Jolson is driven by a power beyond himself. One sees that he knows what he is doing, but one sees that he doesn't half realize the power and intensity with which he is doing it. In those moments I cannot help thinking of him as a genius.

Quite to that point Fanny Brice hasn't reached. She hasn't, to begin with, the physical vitality of Jolson. But she has a more delicate mind and a richer humour--qualities which generally destroy vitality altogether, and which only enrich hers. She is first a great farceur; and in her songs she is exactly in the tradition of Yvette Guilbert, without the range, so far as we know, which enabled Mme Guilbert to create the whole of mediaeval France for us in ten lines of a song. The quality, however, is the same, and Fanny's evocations are as vivid and as poignant as Yvette's-they require from us exactly the same tribute of admiration. She has grown in power since she sang and made immortal, I Should Worry. Hear her now creating the tragedy of SecondHand Rose or of the one Florodora baby who-- "five little dumbells got married for money, And I got married for love . . .." These things are done with two-thirds of Yvette Guilbert's material missing, for there are no accessories and, although the words (some of the best are by Blanche Merrill) are good, the music isn't always distinguished. And the effects are irreproachable. Give Fanny a song she can get her teeth into, Mon Homme, and the result is less certain, but not less interesting. This was one of a series of realistic songs for Mistinguett, who sang it very much as Yvonne George did when she appeared in America. Miss Brice took it lento affetuoso; since the precise character of the song had changed a bit from its rather more outspoken French original. Miss Brice suppressed Fanny altogether in this song-she was being, I fear, "a serious artist"; but she is of such an extraordinary talent that she can do even this. Yvonne . George sang it better simply because the figure she evoked as Mon Homme was exactly the fake apache about whom it was written, and not the "my feller" who lurked behind Miss Brice. It was amusing to learn that without a Yiddish accent and without those immense rushes of drollery, without the enormous gawkishness of her other impersonations, Miss Brice could put a song over. But I am for Fanny against Miss Brice and to Fanny I return.

Fanny is one of the few people who "Make fun." She creates that peculiar quality of entertainment which is wholly light-hearted and everything else is added unto her. Of this special quality nothing can be said; one either sees it or doesn't, savours it or not. Fanny arrives on the scene with an indescribable gesture--after seeing it twenty times I believe that it consists of a feminine salute, touching the forehead and then flinging out her arm to the topmost gallery. There is magic in it, establishing her character at once -the magic must reside in her incredible elbow. She hasn't so much to give as Jolson, but she gives it with the same generosity, there are no reserves, and it is all for fun. Her Yiddish Squow (how else can I spell that amazing effect?) and her Heiland Lassie are examples-there isn't an arriere-pensee in them.

"The Chiff is after me . . . he says I appil to him . . . he likes my type - - " It is the complete give away of herself and she doesn't care.

And this carelessness goes through her other exceptional qualities of caricature and satire. For the first there is the famous Vamp, in which she plays the crucial scene of all the vampire stories, preluding it with the first four lines of the poem Mr Kipling failed to throw into the wastepaper basket, and fatuously adding, "I can't get over it"--after which point everything is flung into another plane-the hollow laughter, the haughty gesture, the pretended compassion, that famous defense of the vampire which here, however, ends with the magnificent line, "I may be a bad woman, but I'm awful good company." In this brief episode she does three things at once: recites a parody, imitates the moving-picture vamp, and creates through these another, truly comic character. For satire it is Fanny's special quality that with the utmost economy of means she always creates the original in the very process of destroying it, as in two numbers which are exquisite, her present opening song in vaudeville with its reiterations of Victor Hebert's Kiss Me Again, and her Spring Dance. The first is pressed far into burlesque, but before she gets there it has fatally destroyed the whole tedious business of polite and sentimental concert-room vocalism; and the second (Fanny in ballet, with her amazingly angular parody of five-position dancing) puts an end forever to that great obsession of ours, classical interpretative dancing.

Fanny's refinement of technique is far beyond Jolson's; her effects are broad enough, but her methods are all delicate. The frenzy which takes hold of her is as real as his. With him she has the supreme pleasure of knowing that she can do no wrong-and her spirits mount and intensify with every moment on the stage. She creates rapidly and her characterizations have an exceptional roundness and fulness; when the daemon attends she is superb.

It is noteworthy that these two stars bring something to America which America lacks and lovesthey are, I suppose, two of our most popular entertainers--and that both are racially out of the dominant caste. Possibly this accounts for their fine carelessness about our superstitions of politeness and gentility. The medium in which they work requires more decency and less frankness than usually exist in our private lives; but within these bounds Jolson and Brice go farther, go with more contempt for artificial notions of propriety, than anyone else. Jolson has re-created an ancient type, the scalawag servant with his surface dulness and hidden cleverness, a creation as real as Sganarelle. And Fanny has torn through all the conventions and cried out that gaiety still exists. They are parallel lines surcharged with vital energy. I should like to see that fourth-dimensional show in which they will meet.

You can read The Seven Lively Arts by Gilbert Seldes online here; or, if you should, like I, prefer paper to cozy up with, here's the paperback at Amazon -- which, you can get a deal on if you purchase it with The Lively Arts: Gilbert Seldes and the Transformation of Cultural Criticism in the United States by Michael Kammen.

I mention the latter as the blurbs about that book have some of the best, clearest, most concise information on Gilbert Seldes himself.

From Publishers Weekly:

In his 1924 book The Seven Lively Arts, Seldes (1893-1970) made the then-controversial claim that popular entertainment and culture should be treated just as seriously, and as rigorously, as the so-called high arts. Krazy Kat and Irving Berlin were worthy of critical attention, he said; and arts criticism in America hasn't been the same since. Kammen, a historian, stresses the "hands-on" aspect of Seldes's long and versatile career. He was a historian, novelist, playwright, filmmaker, scriptwriter, journalism school dean, newspaper and magazine columnist and CBS's first director of television. Although at times Kammen seems curiously defensive, his balanced and insightful account of Seldes's professional life?from the early '20s at the Dial magazine (and the beginning of long-running feuds with both Hemingway and the Algonquin Round Table set) to the 1950s debates on the role of "mass culture"?is a story of a life as well as a history of pop culture on the rise. Seldes, Kammen says, thought of himself as "a highbrow populist" and was a "compulsively candid critic." Kammen weights Seldes's contributions fairly but can be equally candid.

Mary Carroll of Booklist:

Cornell University's Kammen is an astute student of U.S. cultural history; People of Paradox (1972), A Machine That Would Go of Itself (1986), and Mystic Chords of Memory (1991) suggest his scope. It's hardly surprising that he would find Seldes a fascinating biographical subject. Seldes was a major contributor to arts criticism and magazine journalism from the 1920s to the 1960s: edited The Dial when it published T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland; wrote a classic defense of popular art, The Seven Lively Arts (1924), hundreds of magazine articles, a successful Broadway treatment of Lysistrata, and programs for radio and TV; and was founding dean of the University of Pennsylvania's Annenberg School of Communications. Seldes fought with Hemingway, George Jean Nathan, and Edward R. Murrow and wrestled with issues of current relevance, including "dumbing down" vs. "leveling up" in the mass media and government's role in supporting (or restraining) artistic expression. Seldes shed light rather than heat on significant artistic issues American society has faced.

Also, related, is this piece on The Seven Lively Arts and The Freemasons.

For more on Jolson, the International Al Jolson Society.

Context Is The New Bullshit

Yoni Stern, on the matter of the Guardian and its sister title, the Observer, launching a searchable digital archive (which will soon contain all the copies of the papers from their first issues in 1821 and 1791), said:

A newspaper today might be full of bullshit, but it's all a part of the history of culture - the bullshit, too, no less than the reality. You can't get that from history books.

I don't think it is correct to say you can't get that from history books, but rather that history books -- or more pointedly, history text books -- often do lack context.

Context is the bullshit, the stuff which is, in truth, The Reality. More than facts, such as this fire happened, this law was passed, the stock market crashed, etc. on such-and-such dates, the culture is what people were saying, selling, spewing. What leads did the police have on the fire, what motives did they suspect? Why? Why were people passing the laws they did? That ad for frocks -- did hemlines rise as the stocks fell? That's the culture, that's the context, that's the bullshit.

As Maya Angelou said, "There's a world of difference between truth and facts. Facts can obscure the truth."

And now, because you've paid attention to your history lesson, enjoy today's sexual contextual bullshit from the roaring 20's.


Newspaper clipping, dated December 4, 1924. It reads:

Nude Display Unnecessary

Dade City, Fla

Many of the younger generation are coming on laboring under the mistaken idea that the quick way to gain popularity is to make a generous showing of their legs. I still believe that modesty in a woman is a cardinal virtue and that men, as a whole, have a deep respect for women who are becomingly attired. The Gish girls, Mae Marsh, Alice Joyce, Lois Wilson and others are exceedingly popular, and they didn't attain that popularity by an unseemly nude display of their bodies. And who is it that does not love them? They are grand beyond compare.

G.W. Walker

What We Learn From Porn & Men's Magazines

We like to imagine that the stars of our erotic dreams, as they pose with such poise and promise, are, if not blissfully happy, then some sort of underground rebels, pushing past the limits and norms to just do what comes naturally.


This phenomenon, wherein we view the act of creating porn as escapist as our viewing it, is a normal part of porn purveyance. And it's one that often finds us under attack.

Such frivolous behavior is bad enough, but when involving erotic images and ideas it is even far more dangerous. It's as if, somehow, that imagining her photographed gaze is just for us, and that envisioning she is as equally pleased 'seeing us' as she is delighted knowing why we gaze back at her, that all of this is somehow at once both dissimilar and more dangerously out of touch with reality than it is with any interaction with mainstream media.

(If I were to begin to undertake the pro-porn argument today, I would surely remind women of soap operas, both daytime and prime time version; girls of boy bands, boys of comic book & anime characters; and men -- those heterosexual men who deny use of female imagery -- of their lopsided obsession with sports figures -- any of which is equally as warped in its idolisation and fantasy... Yet somehow still deemed less offensive and risky than porn. But I won't get into all of that argument today.)

While porn in general presents these potential problems, at least in theory, porn from the past has additional pitfalls. For example, we have a tendency to romanticize the past.

We like to remember the past as those less complicated times "when a man was a man, and a woman was a woman," and no place is this more true than with our vintage erotica. But I'm here to tell ya, porn, even vintage porn, is not always pretty.


Sure, there is porn that's less-than attractive (down-right weird, even); and yup, like in any business, organization or group of people, there are always a few bad apples which make things scary. But I'm talking more about what the adult industry reveals about the rest of our culture...

Flip through the pages of any "man's publication" and you'll find not just nude photos, but there, in those printed pages, a stripped down picture of the culture & the times in which it was produced.

Like a portable men's room, the 'talk' that occurs in men's magazines is as au natural as the status of the models. It's not that these publications are necessarily less than literate; it's not that their minds are simply in the gutter. But most of these magazines shoot from the hip. They are direct, frank, and don't pussy-foot about. It makes sense, for how can you expect pages of naked broads not to be surrounded by equally revealing stories?

The term 'explicit' is normally reserved for erotic stories (and directions, we hope), but this matter of leaving nothing to be implied or hinted at is a common tone in sex magazines. Sure, there's playful innuendo, dirty puns, and other word play for nimble tongues, but the mere fact that all this sex talk can go on means the publication is censor-free. Every day matters, like the politics of the times, cannot be forbidden in a place (publication) which wishes to convey to its members (subscribers) that there are no holds barred here. How can they invite -- nay, propel -- readers to undress the models and caress themselves if there are indeed taboos? If free liquor cannot be sent along with the publication to loosen inhibitions, then the articles and other content must convey, "Speak freely, brother; it's OK here. Anything goes!"

Case in point, this copy of Hollywood Follies (Greenwich Feature Syndicate, NY, Wayne Sabbath, Managing Editor), scans of which have been placed throughout this post.



From 1943, this issue clearly embraces the wartime mentality with the images of sailors and females with sailor caps, sending a military message. But it's the cover tag lines, "Follies for Victory" and "Jokes to Jerk the Japs," which really announces it supports our American troops.

I don't post the racist, sexist and dehumanising bits here to proclaim them 'good' or to condone them; nor to embarrass or dirty the image of our troops today. But the (supposed) humor in this old publication provides much insight into our American culture at that time. The jokes and tone may be are in bad taste, but this was 1943 and we were at war. Something more than mom, apple pie and the flag were needed to rally and replenish the troops, so gash and trash-talk it was.



Perhaps the most shocking thing I found flipping through the pages of this rather small bi-monthly vintage magazine was this cartoon of what appears to be officers at a cocktail party talking about a woman. She is wearing a near backless black dress which reveals number on her back and the caption reads, "Darn subtle, these Nazis."



How shocking and horrific to see the Nazi practice of ID numbers tattooed on Jews and forced prostitution made into a sex joke. It's enough to make bile rise in my throat, make me want to rip the publication to shreds.

But as a collector, an amateur historian, this dreadful comic is one link to the past. And while I too would much rather prefer to think of days gone by as more simple and pure, this copy of Hollywood Follies makes it clear that the good old days were neither simple nor pure.

There were good times, good days, but there were also bad things and bad ways. Just like today. So perhaps it's better to think of them just as the old days. Or at least force a reality check on ourselves now and then by reading the trash-talking articles as well as looking at the gash photos.

The Biggest Fall?

Vanessa Anne Hudgens, star of the Disney made-for-kids TV movie hit "High School Musical," is under fire because of a nude photo circulating on the Internet. The photo, shown below, was taken for a boyfriend. According to Reuters:

A representative for actress Vanessa Hudgens confirmed on Friday that the image is of the 18-year-old performer. The picture shows her smiling and standing naked directly in front of the camera in what appears to be a bathroom.

"This was a photo which was taken privately," Hudgens' representative said in a statement. "It is a personal matter and it is unfortunate that this has become public."

Kudos for admitting it -- even makes me think that Vanessa is a real person rather than one of those Disney-bots they churn out. (Though we all know there will be hell to pay from the corporate rat mouse.)

What strikes me about this, and is the reason for posting it, is that 'we' are all so freaked out by actions like this.


The photo isn't horrible -- isn't in my mind 'porn' in the nasty way even if it's clearly designed to turn someone on. It's a very natural thing to do. Those of us who have taken such photos raise your hands -- and the rest of you are liars (or have some intimacy or body issues).

Why do we become so upset when celebrities are discovered to have lives, including sexual ones? Why do we kid ourselves that they are not human beings with sex urges (among other things) -- even while we admire, covet and lust after them? People are people.

Why do we freak-the-hell-out when we hear a celeb is a sexual human being?

Yeah, sure she's a product of Disney, marketed for tween consumption, but even then these are people (made of marketing, not in some Disney lab) and so they have lives.

According the the press, "some parents" were outraged:

"She's damaged," Renee Rollins-Greenberg, a Los Angeles mother of two, told Reuters. "She's got this teeny-bop audience, young pre-teens and younger, who are admiring her and thinking she's this wonderful, pure innocent person. Eighteen is awfully young for this kind of display."

"I'm devastated because I have an 8-year-old for which I now have to have an explanation," said another Los Angeles-area mother, Rosie Konkel. "She's always looked at this character as a very smart and proper young lady."

Damaged? Wow. That's overly harsh.

This mom thinks 18 is awfully young for this kind of display? Hey, does she remember what she did at 18? And even if this mom had no sexuality of her own at that age, does she forget we send our 18 year old babies off to fight wars? Eighteen: Young enough to die, but not allowed to be nude.

To the other mom, the one who is devastated at having to give an explanation to her daughter, I have to wonder how her 8 year old would even know? Is she unsupervised on the Internet? If she's so precious, why don't you supervise and control the media she views? And why would this need an explanation anyway? Why don't "some parents" teach their kids the following:

1) An actor or actress is not the role they play. They are human beings who may have little or nothing in common with the characters they play.

2) Adults have the right to participate in and make their own decisions regarding sexuality.

3) Having sex or posing nude does not mean you are not "a smart and proper young lady" (or gentleman). or "damaged". (Heck, posing nude doesn't automatically mean you are having sex, for that matter.)

So, get over it, America. (And that includes you too, Disney.)

The Shadow Knows...

Photographer Alex Waterhouse-Hayward discusses the history of shadows in photography -- but don't worry, it's a quick and easy read. And a great one. I highly recommend it, not only for the brief history of art & photography, but because he makes a valid point about style.

After reading his post I began to think about those shadows, or rather the lack of them: Is that the "what's missing" which makes modern pornography and art nudes less arousing, interesting to me?

I used to think it was that I preferred black & white photos (which still may be the case), or that older color film was somehow superior, or that it's aging pulled at a sense of nostalgia that I somehow shared with those far older than myself. Or maybe, I thought, it was all the damn close-ups which fragmented & dissected (especially since those were points of view I wouldn't naturally have) -- but older erotic photographs are not without its close-ups or intimate and unusual angles.

Reading Alex's piece, the time lines match-up. He notes the 60's as a pivotal point, and that's the ending point for my preference in smut too.

Alex notes:

"The overall result is that faces lose that idea of three dimensionality that the shadow adds by hinting at curvature. Faces look flat."

Substitute 'face' with any other part of the body, and the same result ensues. Erotica without curves, well, it just falls flat for me.

(Alex's blog found via Tad Too Tan For Taupe.)

The Regency Period Piece (Or, The Fashion of Smut) Part One

In The Truth Revealed: What Do Regency Ladies Really Wear Under Those Thin Yet Elegant Empire Dresses? Ms. Place uses an etching of the period, attributed to Thomas Rowlandson (shown here hand colored by another artist), to address the matter of what lay beneath the dress of this period.



Says Ms Place:

This caricature depicts the staircase leading to the Great Room at Somerset House in Pall Mall, which was where the members of the Royal Academy exhibited their paintings. The stairway to the Great Room was steep and long, and undoubtedly tough to negotiate during crowded days.

Rowlandson's caricature speaks to the popular perception that there were two kinds of viewers who came to Somerset House: Those who wanted to see the paintings and sculptures, and those who came to ogle the ladies whose legs and ankles were exposed walking up those prominent stairs.

I myself was a bit reluctant to take an artist's bawdy renderings (seriously the sort of etchings one might be invited up to see sometime *wink*) as the only proof of such fashions. For example, one must consider matters of propriety, hygiene, and class when looking at fashion. Was this really typical?

Knowing a (wee) bit about historical fashions (and costumes), I do recall that Regency fashions were inspired by classic Grecian dress (though also, for added options, using Egyptian and other designs as well. In any case, what we have here are very simple gowns, like night gowns really, and as such this affected the options in undergarments.

There were layers of undergarments, but they were limited or rather modified from the undergarments of the previous fashions (and the following fashions as well). It is both the lighter, or diaphanous, dresses and the lighter undergarments which caused folks to consider the high fashions of 'the youth' to seem reckless, daring, and baring. (As the mocking illustration exaggerates.)

There were indeed layers of undergarments. Beneath the gown the following garments were worn:

1) A chemise, or shift. Meant to protect the outer clothes from perspiration, this was made of white cotton and was washed more frequently than outer clothes.

2) A corset. Corsets were not worn directly next to the skin but over the chemise (again, to keep the corset cleaner as the chemise is easier wash). However, this corset has shorter stays, extending just below the breasts, and lighter 'control' than earlier corsets; not like the Victorian corsets most are familiar with.

3) A petticoat. Worn between the true 'underwear' and the outer dress, the petticoat was usually longer than the dress, which meant it would be seen and therefore often had a fancy hem full of lace and/or ruffles. This was not just a come-hither bit of frou-frou; petticoats longer than the dress meant the hem of the petticoat(s) would be dirtied &/or damaged and not the dress hem. Hence, they were practical.

And, of course, 4) stockings.

You, astute reader, will note that these underthings for women are crotchless -- not in the tawdry adult-store-panty way of today, but in the 'skirts' not 'pants' sort of a way. This for several reasons:

Number one, because this was a world sans elastic and a woman would have a very difficult time hefting all the skirts to untie a waistband and drop drawers.

Number two, clothing was both expensive and a bitch to launder (and by 'bitch' I mean it was hard work, involving coarse soap and boiling water, and it was terribly rough on fabrics). Keeping clothing as clean as long as possible -- and keeping clothing intact as long as possible -- was something nearly all wished for. So, crotchless undergarments for women it was. (And not only the Regency period either.)

Which begs, of course, the question of menstruation (we are discussing Regency "Period Fashions" after all! *wink*)

While blood may be thicker than water, a woman may not hold it; so what did women do about their cycles?

Well, for one thing, the average Regency woman did not need to worry about her monthly curse -- at least not monthly. Don't just take my word for it; see what Iryce Baron, 2007 UIAA Educator of the Year, has to say about it:

In most non-industrial cultures, girls do not reach menarch until they are well into their teens. During the Regency and Victorian periods, most girls in Britain and the US began to menstruate sometime between the ages of 15-17. I believe the average age of menstruation in the US now is around 12.5 years old.

In addition, once girls began to menstruate in the 18th and the 19th centuries, they did not have continuous menstrual cycles each month, interrupted only by 2.5 pregnancies, as is now the statistical average in most postindustrialist Western nations. Middle class to upper class women, married in their early twenties (working class women even earlier) and would have been pregnant and nursing for much of their adult lives. ...many of them would have had very few menstrual cycles in their entire lifetimes.

...For most of the time that humans have been around on this planet, females were not undergoing the hundreds of menstrual cycles they now find is de rigeur to experience.

So this is likely why the women didn't leave bloody trails in Rowlandson's work. Oh yeah, Rowlandson! Where did we leave him? Oh yes, it seems his piece isn't accurate regarding female fashions...

Was Rowlandson actually fooled by fashion? Fashion-Era.com, on the matter of Regency underthings, says:

The pantaloons were made of light stockinet in a flesh toned nude colour and reached all the way to the ankles or to just below the knee. This is why Empire women often appear to be wearing no underwear when seen in paintings of the era. The flesh tone pantaloons acted in just the same way under clothes as they do today when a women wears a flesh toned bra and briefs under white or pastel trousers and top.

Could Rowlandson have been so fooled? It's possible.

It is also possible that Rowlandson's etching is erotica and so is not reflective of the dress at the time as it is of fantasies.

But, and this could just be the smut collector speaking, in this etching by Rowlandson I see two peoples -- the do'ers and the watchers. (And even the timeless question of art vs. pornography with shades, like erotica.) Here Rowlandon's ceratinly drawn lines (oh, the puns -- I cannot resist them, you know!) between the groups of people... Could the etching be satirical or otherwise a social commentary?

Well, as is the case often, if I had but Googled the artist I would have found this at the Davidson Galleries:

Rowlandson's many comic illustrations offered humorous commentary on the political and social conventions of his day.

Sure, I could have Googled the artist first and skipped all the information and myth-information on fashion, undergarments and menstruation -- but where, I ask you, is the fun in that?

Stay near; more on Rowlandson soon, my pets.

Fantasy Females: Skinnier Every Year Since 1953

Following up on changing dimensions in the female form...

Research now shows the magazine's models have been getting thinner since Marilyn Monroe first stretched across its pages in 1953.

All but one of those selected as men's fantasy women since 1992 have been medically underweight, an analysis of the women's weight-for-height ratios found.

The fact the trend was continuing showed that men's idea of gorgeousness was not an immutable response, but was tied to fashion and culture, researcher Martin Voracek said.

Dr Voracek, a psychologist from the University of Vienna, went to the Playboy website for details of the height, weight, bust, waist and hip measurements of every centrefold model since the magazine began.

On crunching the numbers, he discovered the women were getting both thinner and straighter, with less difference between their waist and bust or hip sizes.

"The women are more tubular and skinny. Not really anorexic, but certainly very skinny," said Dr Voracek, who specialises in the psychology of mating and how it affects human evolution. "There are no simple formulas of what is maximally attractive to men in the female body. [Attractive features] are not constant. They change over time."

His study was published yesterday in the British Medical Journal.

An anthropologist, Maciej Henneberg, said the average Australian woman was becoming larger, and the divergence between real body shapes and those presented to men as ideal could have serious implications.

"Men remain adolescent for a lot of their lives and often prefer immature body shapes, this willowy, thin, adolescent look. This is, frankly, dangerous and may lead to pedophilia if men are pushed towards more and more immature bodies," said Professor Henneberg, the head of the department of anatomical sciences at Adelaide University.

This quoted from SMH.

You can read more about Dr. Voracek's study (2002) in the British Medical Journal -- and don't forget to scroll to bottom for a list of feedback and letters on the study. (PDF is here.)

Does This Film Come With A Vibrator? I Sure Need One...

Thom at Fabulon has posted this lovely video for me, so I'm sharing it here -- but don't just watch it and run away, please stay for the notes at the end! (I wish you could hear me narrating as I view it, but since you can't, notes at the end will have to do.)

And do watch all the way to the end -- the way it's been edited, the narrator's face is priceless!



SPS commentary:

Why block the eyes of the wanton fleshpots? Oh, the added mystery only makes me want them more!

This whole piece makes me want to fuck! Seriously, you should have heard me begging for more photos, larger photos, color photos -- especially with the small b/w bdsm images.

Georgey-boy is right; seeing these images, I've never been the same...

Oh, lordy, he mentions the images on slick pages -- oh, the love lust I have for slick pages. (Surely he makes this remark because he knows that novices will use the pages -- but I beg of thee, please don't! This will ruin your magazine!)

Good old George Putnam is horrified that the nudist publications have, dare I say it?! -- Oh, yes, I will! -- "paid professional models!" (Can you see me sitting here, hand wrist at my forehead in shock and horror?!)

Redundancy aside, George, what of your own "paid professional" status as anti-smut monger? If the models have been paid to pose and spread, is getting paid to pose as a narrator and spread your propaganda somehow more moral?

Think I'm being a bit harsh on ol' Georgy? Here's his bio as a paid "reporter, broadcaster and commentator" (at "92 years young" -- insert chuckle here). Note how Georgey has "had more than a passing relationship with the four great silver screen vamps - Theda Bera, Clara Bow, Tallulah Bankhead and Mae West."

Yeah, that's a man who is anti "Perversion for Profit". I bet those ladies have or would have hit him upside the head.

I know I want to.

Double the irony points: Putnam is from Breckenridge, Minnesota -- as in Myra Breckenridge, the fabulous and controversial film which starred Mae West.

PS This 1965 propaganda film was financed by Charles Keating, the felon.

A LuLu Of A Post

While I was away Tom Paine finished up his three-part series on Brooksie, the lovely Louise Brooks. (At the end of that part you'll see links to the first two parts.)

In this final installment Tom opened a can of worms for using the words 'tragic' and 'aging' too close together. Reading Tom as I do, I didn't make the mistake some posters did assuming him to be anti older women. But I can't help but feel the elephant in the room...

It is tragic that humans age as they do. This is especially true for women. Beauty, for all its non-conformity as far as fashion, is tied to youth, health and the ability to conceive. That's basic biology. It's so tied to this that it's true for those who do not want children and, going out on a limb here, it's still a part of non-hetero mate(ing) selection. Youth, with its supple un-lined skin and full healthy hair, signals prime health conditions -- and that is what secures the species. Screw what leads the herd; eat the weak, maimed and unhealthy stragglers at the end of it.

Yes, we are more capable of emotional and intellectual attraction 'above' that of our 'true' animal relatives. We can fall in love with and remain (happily) in love with the infertile, the sick, those minus limbs, the dying; but forgetting we are animals too means trouble. Sperm meets egg, hormones race, penis and/or nipples erect, and much of that is biology and our very own damn animal parts. Much of it is affected by youth or the loss thereof, so don't kid yourself that we humans are free from all that. It's there. It's one of the many layers in our sex onions.

As a woman, I mourn the loss of youth and what it means. Not just the attraction, not just the 'pretty,' but the reminder that I am moving from the front of the herd to the back where there is real trouble. This is why we 'higher animals' nip, suck and tuck among other things. We want to hold onto the middle for as long as we can. It's not just vanity, it's linked to survival.

And I call it a tragedy. For no matter how the other layers of our sexual onions are telling us about and directing us via romance, companionship, a swell sense of humor, and other learned or imprinted attraction methods, none of these things slows down the wrinkling of skin, the greying of hair, the slacking of bellies, bottoms and breasts. So even if our giant, wise, clever brains and affectionate, caring, pretty souls continue to increase the value of our spirits, we age in body.

I don't mind admitting that I absolutely loved my young body -- I love my body now too, but I'll admit I notice what is and isn't as taunt and firm as it once was. I loved more how I looked at 20 than I do at 40. (Where the head was at is another tale entirely.) I felt as wonderful as I looked. Losing that sucks. Losing this blush of youth means we are devalued as sex partners. Again as a woman, one who likes sex, I mourn that loss.

Which brings us, in some fashion or other, to the other discussion Tom Paine's posts prompted.

Curvaceous Dee posted on what freedom to blog, among other things, is allowed or felt when one has family. This reminded me of this bit Gracie wrote awhile ago, on why women are still not allowed to be happy sexual creatures.

On a personal level the main reason I remain the anonymous collector here is because I don't wish to invite trouble. As noted before, simply collecting this stuff puts you if not on the defense at least at the ready to defend yourself from folks who just don't understand.

My being a woman who likes nudes is 'bad' enough. As a female collector and admirer of female nudes (which I began with) means my sexuality is open to interpretation. I pretty much laugh it off but this affects others. If I am a lesbian, then what is my male husband? And while he laughs it off too (honestly, we both have a bi streak), this matter of people discussing our sexuality is a inappropriate. I don't spend half the time worrying about who is before me (and who they are or might be screwing) as those who spot my collections do. I do enjoy looking at images of nudity and sex, as well as reading about it, but pondering a person's sex life? I think it's presumptuous, rude and, like asking what another person earns in salary or wages a year, it's none of my damn business.

And then there is the matter of displaying such things in your home -- especially if you have children about. And currently this isn't a laughing matter because I know authors of erotic who have had child protective services evaluate them for such a thing. I don't want those sort of problems.

Fundamentally I am anonymous for the ease of things -- but it angers me too. Why should I have to do this? Why should I have to shield and 'protect' family and friends from such associations when nudity, sexuality, is completely natural and normal?

Being a child of the 60's (technically born in, however those first few years I was but an infant), I do believe that if you're not part of the solution you are part of the problem. So sitting back resting on my anonymity feels like I am wrong there too.

While I'd truly like the world to be free enough to sexuality as a whole, I do realize this is not so. And any battle I would pick on behalf of being part of the solution would mean I was selecting this battle as one for those I know and love as well. So I let the cool waters of unselfishness sooth the agitated heated waters of these unjust realities.

And while the above is 90% of my reasoning, there's a remaining 10%...

If y'all knew who I was in 'real life' you'd have expectations about what I should say, what I shouldn't say, and what I should have said better. Being anonymous allows me the freedom to guess and, yes, to just throw shit out here now and then. Which kinda goes back to the other 90% because then my reputation, lowered somehow say by a quick posting on my mourning beauty, would affect those I love.

And while it would suck to be considered 'sub par' on my (perceived) abilities, I could handle it -- even if it meant that on top of fading youth and beauty this loss in status means I'd really be moving from the front of the herd to the back but fast! -- but the loss of status would be much harder for my husband and kids. Who would want to be related to that dumb sex obsessed blogger?

Cheating Men

While I'm still thinking about men who cheat on their wives, I found this article most interesting.

Al Martinez, at the LA Times, says of Antonio Villaraigosa "Mayor not unlike other men in power":

What they did, while possibly distasteful on many levels, not to mention unethical, is not unusual among men in power and the women who pursue them. To make my point, I bring you a brief contemporary history of illicit sex on a higher level.

Beginning with the World War II era, which many of you may recall, two prominent figures were said to be doing, well, **it** with their female assistants while married to others. That would be then-Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower with driver Kay Summersby while married to Mamie, and President Franklin D. Roosevelt with secretary Lucy Mercer while married to Eleanor.

Due to a more protective stance back then in the days preceding mad-dog journalism, the public knew nothing of those affairs, involved as we were with whopping the Germans and the Japanese, not to mention their little brothers, the Italians.

Since then, we've had a succession of presidents, some of whom have managed to work in a little on the side while running the country. Prominent among them was John F. Kennedy. He dallied with Marilyn Monroe, who sang happy birthday to him at Madison Square Garden as if it were a mating call, and Judith Campbell Exner, who, it was said, had gangland connections.

Martinez naturally gets around to Clinton. Which reminded me of Gracie's post, It's Lonely At The Top; It's Lonely Everywhere, which focuses not only on Bill himself, but on the TV's Boston Legal and the relationships men have with each other.

Perhaps 'that uncertain feeling' is a more poignant loneliness which too many men mistake for lust. After all, men are raised to be problem solvers -- men of action. And seduction and sex are a filled with action. It's also more culturally acceptable for a man to approach a woman than another man. Of course, she's more likely to empathize than another male and this sharing makes her more willing to have sex...

So there's the math.

Perhaps if John Lewis had befriended Ieuan, or some other chap, he would have found himself less interested in Liz. Then again, he could have turned more to his wife who no doubt would have welcomed the connection herself... But first, John would have needed to identify that uncertain feeling as a loneliness not of the flesh.

It's not that the wives of these men, powerful or impotent feeling, don't understand them -- it's that the men do not really understand themselves. (Maybe they need to at least watch the clips in Gracie's post?)

But now I am getting into psychology, and I'm only admitting to being an amateur historian. *wink*

A Review of Only Two Can Play/That Uncertain Feeling, By Kingsley Amis

That Uncertain Feeling, the hilarious novel by Kingsley Amis, now filmed as Only Two Can Play, starring Peter Sellers, Mai Zetterling, Virginia Maskell. A British Lion Production. A Four Square Book, The New English Library, Ltd., #229. (September, 1962, reprinting of the work published in August, 1955.)

The back of the paperback says, "When this novel was first published it was praised everywhere for its boldness, comedy and style." One of the reviewer quotes used reads, "I must warn readers that this book speaks with the shocking directness about the way of a man with a woman" (John Betjeman, Daily Telegraph). If this is true, I cannot speak to it as I am a woman. However, the book is about a man and told from his perspective (as well as was written by a man), so 'tis more than likely.

The plot is simple. John Lewis is a married assistant librarian in the Welsh town of Aberdarcy, and he and his wife (jean) of just past 5 years are in the dreaded rut, complete with young children and money issues. One morning a wealthy and attractive married woman, Liz, comes into the library. It soon becomes clear that Liz would like to check out more than some books. What complicates the plot, making it more than just the traditional fantasies of a married man (a la the Seven year Itch), is that Liz's husband, Vernon, is in a position to give John a promotion (and a much desired raise).

What fascinates is that John is a rather moral fellow. At first he only believes the attraction to Liz is that she is female fodder for a bit of fantasy and that in fact, she's not (nor would be) interested in him. While finding her attractive, he is also somewhat repelled -- he rather dislikes her position of privilege. (This also speaks of a common human reaction to insecurity -- to loath and disdain prior to being loathed or disdained -- and the reaction to such thoughts, such as to covet.)

But eventually Liz corners John, and he gives in to first one kiss. Then another meeting, and another kiss -- the sort of kiss which is, as Liz says, a "commitment" on his part to further activities...

John's moral reaction isn't exactly as expected -- nor cliched. Perhaps this is the "shocking directness" of a man regarding women that we've been warned about. Whatever; it makes for great reading. This is a passage which illuminates John's thoughts as well as the novel's original title of That Uncertain Feeling:

How, then, was I going to spend the next hour, or rather, adding Jean's usual surcharge, hour and a half? In defending myself, presumably, against a certain feeling. Such defence was never easy, because of its habit of confusing itself with the feeling. How to define this feeling? Depression? Not a bad shot. Boredom? Oh yes. A slight twinge, too, eh, of uneasiness and inert, generalised, lust? Yes, indeed. The centre of it might be called boredom, but not the same sort as the boredom which was fond of attacking me in slack periods in the Library. That was bemused, trance-like, even vaguely pleasurable, like the drowsiness it so often merged into; this, to-night, was restless. It had already stopped me from starting to read, it would shortly drive me to the window again as if I expected someone to call (though I didn't and no one would), it would, later on, make me want to go out to the pub, at the same time informing me that it wouldn't be worth it, that I shouldn't like it there and would at once start wanting to come home.

Yes, it was all very difficult. Curious, too, was the way something so efficient should be so hard to define. But, having for once tried to define it instead of letting it sneak up and jump on my back, I felt a little cheered.

John then turns to his hidden girly magazine.

It represented a full-figure girl wearing a curious yachting costume consisting mainly of a peaked cap, a pair of seaman's boots, and a small, inefficient-looking telescope. Apart from these, she wore two pieces of cloth with a nautical stripe, one covering a good deal of the lower half of her breasts, the other an almost irreducible minimum at the crotch. An expression of guarded joviality was on her face. This jolly skipper, I read in a panel near her right boot, is curvesome Marietta DuForgue, now vacationing at Las Palmas. The dimensions of this trim craft are 38" for'ard, 23" amidships, and 36" aft. What wouldn't you give for a chance of getting her to heave to. Shaking my head over these vulgarities, in particular the maladroit change of image from 'skipper' to 'craft', I went on looking at the photograph.

I didn't just include that section for the giggles. I think it clearly illustrates how John intellectually processes, even to say to himself, "this isn't good," but how he continues anyway. What we know isn't always what we do. And sometimes, we'll accept this lowering of our standards because we don't know what else to do with ourselves, our uncertain feelings. Despite certain knowledge of 'bad' we find ourselves not sure how to be 'good.' And sex, lust, emotions, they aren't solved or sated with our intellectual knowledge.

So our boy John struggles with his uncertain feeling. He has some ambiguity regarding adultery with Liz, but he is most uncomfortable with the idea of Liz fixing the job promotion. Not only is this sort of political, who-you-know game completely against his philosophy, one of the others up for the job is a coworker named Ieuan who in John's opinion, needs the additional pay even more than John. Eventually, though, John and Liz do it. (Not a very erotic bit and I should say that none of this book is really intended to be erotic.)

Immediately afterwards, John realizes that Liz could have been any woman really. And if that's anti-climactic, he's most upset about the job interview being fixed to favor him. He tells Liz to stop her plans, stop her husband, and chucks it all away to return home to Jean, literally and figuratively.

Jean's response as betrayed wife is very real and honest. (This impresses me because the book is touted as such a man's point of view.) Jean doesn't really care that John's screwed Liz because to her, the real pain and loss occurred when she realized that John wanted Liz more than he wanted her. The consummation of his lust is not the real issue.

However, Amis via Jean, carries the attitude and reaction to betrayal even further -- and I think even more realistically.

In the middle of their heated discussion of the situation, John's betrayal with Liz, Jean tells John that she doesn't want to hear about it. The details are unimportant, what's done is done, no need to say anything more -- but of the job? Well, Jean has a lot to say about that.

You couldn't just do it and forget about it, not you, you had to make a bloody fuss, so you told her what to do with the job she'd landed you. Don't talk to me about Ieuan, you don't care what happens to Ieuan, or his wife. You forgot you were married to me, though, that's what makes me so mad. If it had just been your job you were turning down, fair enough, you could do as you liked. But it wasn't just your job, it was my job as well, and the kids' too. But you didn't care about that, you'd got to make your stand and be bloody sensitive. Well, I hope you're satisfied.

She continues to tell John the usual, like he's sleeping alone. And when he tries to kiss her, she slugs him. But then Jean gets a second wind.

What you'd better do is to make up to Elizabeth again quick. Get her to take you away for the week-end or something. I don't care how you do it, but make sure the affair's on again. And then tell her you want that job after all, see? You didn't mean what you said, you acted hastily, something like that. You'll know what to say, I bet. But you get that job back, else I'll stop cooking for you --

Jean even lies and says she's had an affair (with a poet John cannot stand) when she has not.

John is devastated. To sleep alone a night, or many, is likely not anything unexpected let alone unwarranted. But when your wife says she'll stop being your wife in all ways... Well, there's real damage done.

John's hit bottom. Early that night, after Liz and he do it on the beach, not only did John end things with Liz but her husband told John in no uncertain terms to stay away. John's potential promotion isn't exactly something within his control -- and that means losing Jean.

In the end, John is offered the job but he declines and Ieuan gets it. John, Jean and the kids start over in the town where John grew-up. There, at a party, we find John being hit-on by another attractive, yet married, woman. She'd like to leave the party and have a hook-up asap. John hurriedly makes an excuse to the hostess and then quickly makes for the door.

Jean, who was nearby the hostess and so heard John's excuse and saw his departure, catches up with him outside. John tells her that he had to get away from that woman. They smile and walk off together.

Into the sunset? Perhaps. John seems a wiser man, and Jean clearly will keep a watchful eye.

The book is an interesting look at the deterioration of a marriage -- but not a cliched one. Jean's no over-bearing shrew, John's no moral-free playboy, and neither is the anti-Christ. While nothing in particular drives a wedge between them (of the sort that Hollywood would contrive to create a plot anyway), what makes this all work is the interior monologue and subtle actions of John Lewis.

His thoughts are not unrealistic; his actions not so flamboyant. He has morals, but sometimes his intellect makes things a bit too tidy sometimes. He's just a guy with that uncertain feeling, in a marriage with that uncertain feeling, and opportunity is thrust to meet his lust and what's a guy to do? His decisions are not well-made, but in reading how he arrived at those decisions you can see how too easily this can happen. Suddenly you find yourself in a cluster-fuck. That's pretty human. And the excellent part is that all the other characters, trapped inside the cluster or outside of it, are all realistically human too. Right down to the habitually cheating Liz, her seemingly distracted (or tolerant) husband, and the supporting characters such as Ieuan and the Lewis' downstairs neighbors.

Solid stuff. Solid vintage stuff.

One complication for me was the English -- not just the language (which does differ, you chaps -- for example, I didn't know what Jerries were), but much of the book deals with what I can only presume is the classic battle of the English versus the Welsh. While actual Welsh spelling isn't used (thank gawd), some of the terms and nearly all of the jabs about being Welsh or English were over my head. This does not render the novel worthless, but means one really has to pay more attention than I had assumed the paperback would require. It really is a good read.

As noted, the work was turned into a film, Only Two Can Play, in 1962, apparently with the usual book-to-film changes, including a slightly different ending. It starred Peter Sellars as John Lewis, Virginia Maskell as Jean Lewis, Mai Zetterling as Liz (Elizabeth) Gruffydd-Williams, and Richard Attenborough as Vernon Gruffydd-Williams.

The BBC also made this a television series in 1985, staring Denis Lawson and Sheila Gish, under the original novel title, That Uncertain Feeling.

Men, It's Not The Size Of Your Club But Your Willingness To Share It Which Matters

First of all, I know you've all seen this, so I'm not presenting this Giant Homer Simpson Freaks Out English Countryside as 'news'. (Shocking idea isn't it, the notion that I, a lady bent on vintage porn, historical erotica and sexual history, were to present 'news'?!)

When I first saw this image I guessed it was photoshopped -- or at best a juxtaposition of two images -- an amusing artist rendering for the Wordless Wednesday meme, or other commentary on the cultural division between the young, immature, commercial, crass US and the old, steeped-in-antiquity, classy Brits.

In a way, the article proves my point.

In merry old England, a donut proffering man in his undies is more offensive than a nude man with well-defined, slightly exaggerated genitalia.

The English -- hell, not just English folks, but pagan English folks are outraged by "this darn great eyesore" that is Homer Simpson. In the USA pagan outrage is rather the definition of the moral way, the way things should be here in our God fearing country. Pagans are the ones who would (or would be accused of) putting on grand display human nudity -- and conservatives would freak out.

In fact, the very remedy for nude artwork might be to cover it up with something else... And if a company is willing to pay the expense, well, let it be a logo! (You know, it really wouldn't take much effort to turn the Cerne Abbas Giant into Homer. With just a few additional lines the giant's penis could easily become a pair of Y-fronted undies.)

While we can only guess as to what the nude giant hillfigure means, what he stands (erect) for, most guess he is a tribute to masculinity. For hundreds of years it was custom to erect a maypole within the hillfigure (one can imagine where) and childless couples would dance to promote fertility. They say that childless couples try to get as close as they can get to the giant (being a National Trust, it's the bottom of the hill) to have blessed sex and conceive. And English girls visit the old naked man, praying not to become 'old maids.'

Which makes me think that, in all reality, Homer and the Cerne Abbas Giant are very much the same.

The giant has his great physical prowess noted in his large attributes, his two big clubs if you will. He is both hunter & provider in terms of both food and sex. He is the male virility required for species survival.

Today, Homer represents our version of male virility. He has one small hidden (beneath fat and underpants) penis -- but then we know it needn't be so large to do the trick, and as proof he has three offspring. His other club is the donut. A freakishly large donut that, as he stands there in bloody England, he is willing to share. Homer too can be counted on for our species survival.

Certainly most US girls pray they won't play Marge to their own future Homer husbands. But on the other hand, there are worse things a girl could do.

If the promotional chalk Homer could survive to be 'discovered' by scholars centuries into the future, I'm sure they'd draw similar conclusions. (At least if they had as much knowledge of us here in 2007 as we do about folks in the 17th century.) Then again, what do I know?

Well, I do know that the pop culture figure is not only more well known here in the US, but more likely to remain so than the Cerne Abbas Giant -- even if the giant has been carved into the natural chalk earth and is centuries old. After the promotional chalk has washed away, Homer the character will certainly continue to exist for us. Yet even just a year from now, the ancient "aroused, club-wielding man" likely won't even have become a trivia question.

No Timeless Beauty To Conform To

Years from now, people will see this photo and know 'what vintage' it is.


While I cannot say what form 'beauty' and 'the erotic female' will take for future pleasure seekers, the perky breasts with tan lines, the complete 'Brazilian', the pose, and the incomplete headless female form will speak of our times just as natural pubic hair speaks, mainly, of earlier times.


(Viewers of my collection who frown &/or are repulsed by my magazines featuring women with natural body hair mistakenly guess these are hirsute publications because of our current dislike of women with pubic hair. It takes some explaining to get them to understand that while razors were around, bush was as exciting in sight and texture as the complete removal of it supposedly is today. It wasn't until bikinis and other fashions became the norm that trimming was even a 'grooming' issue -- for women.)

Preachings of feminism and body hair aside -- and even discussion of standards of beauty and desire being not just a social construct but a cultural response to economics left for another time -- the point I'm getting to is that there are markers & clues to the periods of time from which objects come. Clothing, hairstyle, makeup, the cars on which bodies sprawl, other objects can offer clues; but so do body types themselves.


While fashions themselves come and go, so do the standards of beauty rise and fall like the heaving breasts of an excited woman. Learning to see the beauty, or at least acknowledging another form of beauty, is often a struggle for some collectors of nudes and erotic art works.

Interestingly, at least to me, is the notion that for most of history (being just that, his-story), the idealized standard of beauty is not only recorded, but that the recordings show woman's willingness to conform to it.

Before you think I'm going all patriarchal on your ass, let me remind you of the fact: This is a patriarchal time.

In fact, for most of recorded history, it has been. (I'll refer you to Cows, Pigs, Wars, and Witches: The Riddles of Culture for more information.)

I'm not going to argue this fact, nor complain about it (at this time), or even justify it (I do have my theories, after all). But for now, I merely want to point out the dearth of documentation which shows the female desire to be desirable.

The defense of this, as much required for my own sanity as any other feminist reading this, will likely be a plethora of postings. But as unsettling as this is -- and it is -- at this point it would be incredibly silly of me not to note it.

Photo credits: Top nude, ~pinuplover at deviantART; middle, my own pc stash; last, LLAPA.

Education In Porn

After a screening of Hot and Bothered:Feminist Pornography, there was a group discussion regarding women and porn, featuring Jack Hafferkamp of Libido, Carolyn Caizzi from Early to Bed Productions, and Becky Goldberg, the maker of the documentary. Most interesting stuff:

Woman [In the audience]: I'm back in school at DePaul, working a lot with anthropology and the idea of sex and how it empowers women, etc. Basically, answering this lady in asking you, I guess, the idea of sex, anthropologically speaking, is a power dynamic and there are many women whose agenda has been to, because they felt wounded, because they had felt raped or pillaged or whatever we go through in our society, that sex is kinda scary. So I think what you are up against is a bunch of fear from this society that's been told that the power dynamic is really that and you're trying to say "trust"-that the power dynamic can be really healthy and it can be good and so what if there's somebody in bed that's stronger, one weaker, what the gap is. How do you guys feel about that?

Becky: I think it's partly an uneducation or an unsocialization and I think that really in our society, porn might not be fully accepted. I think that's how it is. But I definitely think the communication needs to happen, more so than it does now in our culture. I think that the communication between parents and their children needs to be more open, the sex education that happens in the schools. People on a base level need to be more comfortable with their sexuality, in general. Before you get to whether or not you want to watch porn, it's like you have to be OK with who you are, OK with your body. From my perspective, I think one of the common problems feminist pornography has from getting out there is that women don't even think that they can watch pornography and that it's not even made for them, so why would they even go there? So I think, though, at its base, it has to do with education.

Image via PostSecret.

In Which I Defend Myself, And Likely You Too

I received an email regarding my post on Lewis Carroll. Not surprising, I guess. After all these years collecting sex history items I'm used to these sort of questions.

I'd like to post the email here, but as an ethical person who wishes not to feed search engines and therefore persons searching for the sorts of materials discussed here, I'll paraphrase. I'm certain you can read between my lines.

The basic question is: "Why would I post such images?" And more to the point, "Don't I realise I am only encouraging such sickos?" (Specifically, the email quoted my line about the nudes not being available online as proof of my wrongness.)

In truth, paraphrasing and condensing focuses on the real issue I'd like to get at here. Well, it's two issues.

The first is that as a collector, an amateur historian, I'm documenting, researching and questioning. I find an object, which leads to a story. Or a set of questions and ideas to explore. It's the story of us all, we humans, and sometimes our own stories and ideas make us uncomfortable. But that doesn't mean the stories ought not to be looked at. The old (perhaps tired) adage says we should learn from our history. We can't do that if we selectively, defensively, ignore stories and lessons. Similarly, the "How did we get here" and "Where are we going?" cannot be clearly answered if we do not look to our past. There's more to this philosophy, but for now let's sum this up so we can get to point two: History should not be censored or otherwise ignored. Sex history is no different.

As a sub-point, I'd also like to say that I was not salacious in that post. The (brief) research was provided within context and, as with this post, specific words were not used (i.e. I did not glorify or try to sell pedophilia via arousing terms). Context and intention are important -- which leads us to point two.

As a collector I'm often either in the middle of or next to a discussion (rant) about censoring, separating &/or preventing the sale or trade of such items. One of the most commonly discussed issues is the matter of vintage nudist publications which often have images of children.

No matter that with most vintage nudist materials genitalia is air brushed into a photographic image of Ken's genitalia, or that these children are now 70 years of age or long deceased; people still get very upset. It's the idea of what someone might do to/with these images of innocent children who had no knowledge of such possibilities or ability to even consent to photos (or in fact the nudist lifestyle). They are children, and our culture currently abhors the notion of sex even touching their children's lives.

While I'm in complete agreement -- as a law abiding citizen and mother, I cringe and wail at the notion of pedophilia -- this was not the intent (for the bulk) of nudist colonies or their publications. Context and intent, remember, are important.

"But," cry the upset people, "what of the intent of the person buying the stuff now?" Ah, yes. We collectors of "smut" are a randy bunch, right? Not exactly. I can't speak for or to the proclivities or others, but the collectors I know aren't exactly 'using' their collection in such a manner. While we certainly do enjoy our collections, and most of us select items or are drawn to specific areas based on what (and who) appeals to us, this is not a sexual activity.

Could someone, would someone, masturbate to items in their collection? I'm sure they can. In fact, many collections of say Playboy likely began in pursuit of physical pleasure well before a historical or research thrill was even thought of. But this does not mean that all collectors are so aroused by their collected objects.

However, for the sake of argument, let's say they are so inclined. In the case of the previously mentioned vintage nudist publications, were they to be put to use for our worst fears this is surely a bad thing. But to prevent or otherwise ban the sale of such items to legal adults based on 'what they might do' is crazy. You never know what a person intends to do or will do with an item they've purchased. Is that pillow for sleeping or are you going to smother your spouse with it?

Limiting the scope of this conversation to 'just sex' (which is apparently the largest fear-based motivator, second only to "terrorism"), this could-they-would-they-in-a-boat thinking is near hysteria in its proportion. (And this part of the discussion becomes another sub-point really.)

If the question is, "Will they masturbate to it?" my first response is, I surely do not know. What if they do?

"Don't you care?" is met with, Why should I? The act you are worried about is a private one, a legal one, and none of my business. Should that intimate human act become the motivator for some illegal act, well then I'll entertain a discussion of the facts; but for now my answer is, 'It's none of my business'. Masturbation is a victimless act.

And really this issue really isn't about adult collectibles or any category of collecting, for that matter.

We don't know what anyone does with anything they obtain. Is that banana for eating? Is that plush Smurf toy a gift -- and for whom? What are they going to do with it? Name an object and I can point to its sexual objectification and/or satisfaction. It's not just that I'm a perv; that's just the way humans work.

So could someone use my posts as fodder for sexual fantasy? Sure. Does it matter to me? If it's legal (and so far both fantasies and masturbation are legal), then no, it doesn't matter to me. (Does it interest me? Only for research purposes. *wink*)

My collection of "smut" drives the research, and results in documentation of history. Our sexual history via the objects and persons we've objectified in sexual ways. That's what this blog (mostly) is about. That's the context and intention, for the most part. I do also hope it's entertaining -- for entertaining means it will be read, and therefore spark thinking if not actual conversation, research or collections. And if that 'entertainment value' includes masturbation, well, that's really none of my business and certainly nothing I want to police or censor.

Kiss & Tell With The Bay City Rollers

I didn't even know this existed.





If I had, I'm certain I wouldn't have wanted it. (And Chris Jart assures me it wasn't worth it.)

I was too cool to be boy-crazy about the Bay City Rollers. (I'm not saying that I didn't have silly teen dreams or think of kissing the posters on my walls, I just didn't do this with the Bay City Rollers.)

Sure, I had the album, but who didn't love that ear worm S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT? (If you were a teen in '75 you had to love the "rockin' party anthem." I think it was a law or something.)



Some girls so love the boys in plaid that they swooned over I Only Want To Be With You.


In fact, I had one album (the Greatest Hits) and in the early 80's some guy I dated twice borrowed it.

Yeah, "dated" -- it's not like I let him pick me up in a bar and go home with him. Or called him one a few weeks later when bored just to have sex. A two-night stand is so terrible to admit to. Especially to a short, swarthy little man who you cringe when you think about -- the things I do in the name of honesty here.

He never gave the record back. And I, apparently over that self-loathing low point in my life, never called him to get it -- it wasn't worth it. If the price of leaving the little sweaty troll behind was one Bay City Roller's record, that was the (exceedingly low) price I'd have to pay. While that price was even lower than my standards to hook-up with the guy, the loss of the record doesn't remove the personal blot, the stain on my history (were that as easy to remove as those on my sheets!).

So why am I posting this Bay City Rollers Kissing Kit?

Well, for one, we all had silly celeb crushes and it's fun to mock those of others. :p

Second, it's also important to remember that even as you mock another for their tween-lust of a goofy band or other mistake -- you have bigger mistakes to cringe over.

It's important to recognize your own personal sex history -- including those moments that aren't warm and fuzzy.

That, my friends, is part of nostalgia.

So here's to you, guy whose name I can't remember. Enjoy the record if you still have it.

The Friday Night Bookstore Crowd

As part time Walden Books seller (from the mid 80's to early 90's) I often worked the Friday night shift. Even in bookstores there are the cool kids who have parties and dates to attend, but really, most folks didn't like working Friday nights because of the clientele. Friday nights meant customers with weekly paychecks and those who made a bee-line for the mall bookstore were the male geeks.

Well, I shouldn't say they made a bee-line. It was more like they cashed their checks, had a meal out and then headed to the bookstore. It was an event for most of them. You'd think with the number of them it was an organized event, but it wasn't. It was a crowd of individuals, a date-night for one if you will, with the crowd consisting of socially awkward individuals who didn't speak to each other. (Again, I should point out this phenomena was seen in the male of the geek species; women are an entire other story.)

So the store is full of single men, with a penchant for computer and tech magazines, who all manage to merge at the magazine rack but never, ever mingle. There's no talking. No boasting of equipment. No eye rolling over who would pick that pc magazine. No talking at all because that would mean human connection, and clearly these boys weren't up for it.

My first Friday night, I saw the busy store with its well behaved customers (these guys waited patiently in line and never sighed impatiently or did most of the other annoying things I experienced on other busy sales days) and I wondered what the fuss was all about. Why did the other workers not want to work Fridays? It was just me, the manager who sat in back doing her weekly reports and only came on the floor to close the register, and Gary, the only male employee. So at my first opportunity, I asked Gary what the problem with Fridays was. Gary just mumbled something about other employees having plans -- but I did notice he blushed. Something wasn't quite right here...

It wasn't until my second Friday night shift that I figured it all out.

Gary had worked the register the previous Friday and he began the shift there as well. At one point he left to help a (non-geek) customer find a book, and I, seeing a line begin to form, jumped to pitch in and ring sales. As soon as I appeared at the register the first geek in line seemed reluctant to have me process the sale. He stood