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regenerative dance play with your halloween candy freize and enjoy cure your hangover
Editors-in-Chief Sam Knowles Amelia Stanton Managing Editor of Features Charles Pletcher Managing Editor of Arts & Culture Jennie Young Carr Managing Editor of Lifestyle Jane Brendlinger Features Editors Zoë Hoffman Arts & Culture Editors Clayton Aldern Tyler Bourgoise Lifestyle Editors Jen Harlan Alexa Trearchis Pencil Pusher Phil Lai Chief Layout Editor Clara Beyer Aesthetic Mastermind Lucas Huh Copy Chiefs Julia Kantor Justine Palefsky Staff Wrter Berit Goetz Copy Editors Lucas Huh Caroline Bologna Kristina Petersen Allison Shafir Blake Cecil Nora Trice Chris Anderson
not just for kicks // matt doyle
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
Have you registered? We did. We woke up at 8AM to register for Feminist Criticism of Street Signs. It’s really popular, and we’re totally on top of our sh*t. No, we did not wake up to register for courses. We slept in, until the godly hour of 9:30 -- it’s the little things, these days, and you can’t let them pass you by. After looking at the calendar and investigating the matter further (we are a newspaper, after all), we’ve determined that it is in fact November. Turkey or tofurkey time, depending on your persuasion. The month before December, home to Channukah and Christmas and eclectic family dinners during which mom may reference her favorite Sexicon piece. The first snow has fallen, and from our perch at the head of the BDH, we can see that changes are coming. This week, as you might have predicted, we are are examining the trends du jour. Join us as we seek to make sense of Occupy Providence, sports, Halloween. We try our best to understand, but perhaps, as ever, we are just a few days behind. Alas, we try. But please read us anyway. There is some good stuff in here. We printed it, after all. Until next time,
3 upfront 4 feature
we are the _____ // seth kleinschmidt transwho? // tyler bourgoise dance, dance, dance // charles pletcher
5 arts & culture
culture 6 arts &frieze // cassie everybody
lifestyle 7 jane, you food // jane me
brendlinger the morning after // clara beyer
sexicon // MM emily post just dorian
sam and amelia
cover // phil lai not just for kicks // phil lai we are the _________ // phil lai transwho? // madeleine denman dance, dance, dance // marissa ilardi everybody frieze // sheila sitaram strangers with candy // caroline washburn the morning after // caleb weinreb
LISZTOMANIA BICENTENNIAL FESTIVAL CONCERT Sayles Fri 8PM
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email post.magazine@gmail. com and tell us why you’re awesome. if you want to hang out with cool people, we want to hang out with you. yours truly, post-
Post- Magazine is published every Thursday in the Brown Daily Herald. It covers books, theater, music, film, food, art, and University culture around College Hill. Post- editors can be contacted at post.magazine@gmail. com. Letters are always welcome, and can be either e-mailed or sent to Post- Magazine, 195 Angell Street, Providence, RI 02906. We claim the right to edit letters for style, clarity, and length.
BAG IT! SCREENING Salomon 001 Thurs 7PM
BROWN STORYSLAM Kassar Fox Fri 8PM
NEON NITE Grad Center Lounge Fri 10PM
AND ALL THAT JAZZ Faunce Underground Sat 10PM
TOP TEN Classes for Spring 2010, Real and Imagined
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 3RD, 2011
1 2 3 4 5
AMCV1903 Shrine, House or Home: Rethinking the House Museum Paradigm ITAL1946 Mamma Mia! Extreme Pover ty and MaternalChild Mor tality in Post-War Italy HMAN1970 Botanic Verses: Plants, People, and Words that Bind Them CROSS LIST ETHN1985 and ENVS1682 I am an Individual: Studies in Snowflake Morphology TAPS1690 Sugarplum Fairies: Hyper-masculinity in Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker
6 7 8 9
COLT1510 Havana as Lesbos: Cuban-American Female Poets Come Together COLT 1812 On Being Bored (formerly known as ENGL 1511L) CROSS LIST HIST1870 and GNSS1410 The Royal Eunuch: Castration Narratives in Early Iberia ARCH0305 Glass from the Past: Glimpses into the Histor y, Technology, and Ar tistr y of Molten Material Culture APMA2040 Cracking the Code: ➲✹❂ ✶➘✻♠☛✑☎ ✌▲✜❡❝ in Modern Cr yptography
not listening to the Lou Reed/Metallica collaboration. Neither should you.
Go the Fuck to Sleep. Still
Not Just for Kicks
merging sports and education
volunteer in Project GOAL classrooms, helping students finish their homework and working on the skills (including English language acquisition) necessary to do so. Using recreation as a hook, Brown volunteers also play soccer with the kids they just tutored. The results are tangible: 90 percent of Project GOAL students go on attend college—97 percent of whom are the first in their families to do so. Additionally, 17 students have been given scholarships to top private middle schools, including Moses Brown School, Rocky Hill School, the Wheeler School, and Providence Country Day School. Through my own experience as a sport for development student ambassador, I have connected students at Brown with other college students across the country by facilitating the academic connection between sports and human rights. In my opinion, it is best to define the Sport for Development and Peace movement broadly, as the movement is essentially still defining itself. The broad, three-pronged approach of the SportsCorps model allows students to get involved with the area of their choice— whether it be research, fundraising, or volunteer opportunities. This is why the club has been able to retain membership and grow in its initial stages of development. Despite the initial success of the club, there are still challenges ahead in making the Sport for Development and Peace movement more sustainable in the eyes of different key stakeholders. Bridging the gap between athletics and academics is a challenge as many government officials, school administrators and teachers fail to see the benefits that go along with sport and play. Instead, they simply classify this activity as recreation without an effect on substantive education. In order to narrow this gap, it is important to continue to create common dialogues and connections between students, professors and experts on different campuses by offering research, fundraising, and direct volunteer opportunities. In so doing, we address the concerns of skeptical stakeholders, highlighting the best practices of the field and the vital role of academics and student clubs in helping to sustain the movement.
searching for Providence serial killers a la Dexter.
Over the past few years at colleges and universities everywhere, undergraduate and graduate students have started to find ways to utilize sport as a platform for social change. Students are taking up initiatives that use sport as a catalyst to promote and engage in community development, social responsibility, and community service. At Brown, a sport for social change student club known as SportsCorps@Brown was formed in the fall of 2010 to use sport to address key physical, mental, social and economic challenges plaguing impoverished individuals and communities—in both an international and domestic context. The primary purpose of SportsCorps is to provide the necessary resources for current undergraduate and graduate students on campus to help their surrounding communities. The interdisciplinary nature surrounding the Sport for Development and Peace movement has sparked a growing interest among students. Through SportsCorps, students confront issues such as peace, education, gender, disability and both community and economic development. SportsCorps members—both students and student-athletes— collectively research and raise awareness through the club about the intersection of academics and sports. Group Independent Study Projects (GISPs) have become a cornerstone of student research. One GISP next spring focuses on the Sport for Development and Peace movement and will be exposed to the five major benefits associated with establishing sport programs in impoverished areas: promotion of peace building and anti-violence culture, health promotion and disease prevention, enhancement of childhood education and development, promotion of social inclusion, and stimulus of economic and community development. Students volunteer through Project GOAL (Great Opportunity for Athletes to Learn), a nonprofit located in Central Falls and Providence, Rhode Island, that uses the power and passion of soccer to help 70 selected inner-city kids stay off the streets, stay in school, and realize opportunities in higher education. Brown students
wild(e) about Windermere, and wondering when fans will finally come back in style.
finding partly melted pieces of candy in coat pockets after Halloweekend... and totally eating them.
spiking the new pumpkin spice lattes from the pretty Providence Coffe Roasters truck.
We Are the
finding a face for the occupy movement
seth KLEINSCHMIDT contributing writer
I was about to say that I’m getting sick of hearing about the Occupy movement, what with its hobo-ina-tent aesthetic and its frightening love of Guy Fawkes masks. (I never will get over that one.). Then I kick myself in the face because I know in my heart of hearts that getting sick of Occupiers is an incredibly stupid thing to do. Not just because, if slighted, they might steal the trickor-treat loot out of your little sister’s hand (1% of the kids have 70% of the candy, you know), but because our nation needs the Occupiers. With that sentiment out of the way, I will admit that I still feel uncomfortable hearing about the Occupy Wall Street/Providence/College Hill crowd—but not because I’m tired of their demands or fingerless gloves. No, I’m sick of hearing about a social movement that doesn’t have a mascot. Seriously, Occupiers. Get with the program. The National Basketball Association draws huge crowds because its teams have twenty-somethings in foam cat costumes bouncing on trampolines during halftime. Look it up. College football fans are so excited to have big, laughable symbols of school pride that they will occasionally go and, I don’t know, poison them (see Alabama, University of). And the quality of the mascot may very well determine the fate of your organization. Consider the San Diego Padres. They have the unfortunately-named Swinging Friar as their symbol of victory, and yet they have never won a World Series. Coincidence? Hardly. So take heed, Occupiers. A mascot is more than a talking point or something to which you drunkenly raise a glass. If treated with the proper respect, your funny caricature/foam thingy can become the movement. If you don’t have one, you’re just not doing it right. You have a great slogan, which is a step in the right direction. “I AM THE 99%” is about as plainspoken and bold as you can get, and for that I salute you. But it’s not enough. So, if you decide to man up and want to really inspire people, here are four candidates on my shortlist. Feel free to choose… 1. Herman Cain On the surface this seems absurd. A man who said that you should look in the mirror for the reason you’re not rich is kind of a bad choice for a massive, highly energetic movement of angry middle class folks. But cool it for a second and take a closer glimpse at Cain. I did, and I saw two important characteristics: pizza and ice cream. Every 99 percenter worth their salt grew up within spitting distance of a Tasty Freeze (or Frosty Freeze, or Ye Olde Sugare Shacke), and so the Black Walnut should conjure up smooth, American Graffiti-esque memories for everyone in Burnside Park. And who doesn’t pine for the days of post-soccer game pizza parties? Godfather’s Pizza is undoubtedly one of the most legendary and respected franchises in history citation needed, so you just know that Hurricane Herman would be on board with handing out “everyone is a winner” gold plastic trophies to those camping out in the cold. Also, someone please make sure that #HurricaneHerman starts trending. 2. The Tyger from William Blake’s “The Tyger” Dedicated Occupiers know that it’s cold outside, and that nothing is better for tearing winter a new one than fire. So, if you’re chilling at Burnside and start yearning for a flaming effigy to keep both your hands and your ideology warm, you might want to review your old copy of Blake’s collected works. To be honest I forget the metaphorical significance of the misspelled jungle cat, but surely it can be adapted to fit the classic Tammany Hall-esque vision of corruption. And you hate corruption, right? The Tyger is probably a fat bastard, too, and we all know how much fun those Fat Cats on Wall Street are having. With that in mind, feel free to take the burning part of Blake’s poem literally. Like traffic cones and Cheetos, nothing says “Danger, Rich People” like the color orange, and a burning jungle beast is the perfect shade. 3. Calvin, from Calvin and Hobbes The terrorist with a heart of gold. You’ve seen that picture of the Occupy Vancouver protestors having squirt gun battles with cops? Calvin’s been doing that sort of thing since the ‘80s. All any of us really want is to live in a country where we can play Calvinball without fear of having our money stolen while we’re out in the backyard. Big Business has been missing wickets and stealing goals for far too long. Plus, I think I recall some Occupiers recently advocating for occupying Jupiter (why should it have all the mass?), and Calvin’s Spaceman Spiff persona is the poster boy for anything related to quantum space travel. He also never changes his clothes, making him perfectly suited for the tentcentric life of a protestor. Even Bear Grylls puts on new socks every now and then, and he’s supposed to be the ultimate outdoorsy freak. Calvin clearly wants to make life easy for you but difficult for the 1%, accentuated by the fact that the Koch brothers both look like they are relatives of Miss Wormwood. 4. Every Single One of the Transformers And not just because they would probably come with the optional Megan Fox expansion pack. I think I have to count Bumblebee out, though. A black and yellow Camaro is just too obnoxious for the Occupiers. Most of them (myself included) would rather ride shotgun in a VW bus capable of transforming into Jim Morrison, and a muscle car is obviously the antithesis of a peaceful protest. Chevrolet sells Camaros fully-stocked with tear gas canisters and flashbangs (they actually mention this if you slow down the audio of the disclaimers guy at the end of every commercial), so I would feel awkward visiting my cousins in Oakland over Thanksgiving vacation. But sleazy, greasy-haired sax man Bumblebee aside, the Transformers are viciously elegant, much like all of you Occupiers. They have the spirit of social action in them, since they’re quite good at taking over big cities (although they do tend to reduce them to weeping ruins after a few hours). Do you really need any other reasons to slap their beautiful gears all over your banners? You do? Okay, how about this: OPTIMUS PRIME is an anagram for PERMITS OPIUM. Sounds like a swell guy to me! (He’s also an anagram for MOISTURE PIMP, which may or may not be relevant to the movement.) In conclusion, please, Occupiers, raise up one of these symbols (or something completely different (and more sane)) before it’s too late. I’ve looked deep inside of your group and seen something. It’s called Iron Giant, Robert Plant, the Yellow Power Ranger—really, it doesn’t matter what it is. All that matters is that when I saw it, it resembled triumph. Choose something to represent that spirit, anything at all. As long as you can get behind it, you can count on it to infuse you with not only green tea extract, but also the glow of righteous conquest. I wonder if there are any real swinging friars.
tyler BOURGOISE arts & culture editor
Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer won the Nobel Prize for literature earlier this month, an award long overdue: the Swedish Academy has nominated him every year since 1993. Now, after a debilitating stroke and a litany of poetry prizes, Tranströmer is becoming a poetic force without national boundaries. However, only a few Americans at universities scattered across the country have observed Tranströmer’s growth. Otherwise we don’t collectively know his voice. It is difficult to discuss a living poet who writes so seamlessly about death, if only because, as he ages, his seamless writing begins to resemble truth: Tranströmer is old enough—growing closer to dying—for us to risk never being conscious that such talent was living among us. Certain details of Tranströmer’s biography are striking. A practicing psychologist for many years, Tranströmer is one of the few post-WWII poets who has successfully pursued an academic (or clinical) discipline with no ostensible connection to poetry. Working outside the tradition we have come to expect from poets—that they earn a living by teaching their craft—Tranströmer’s personal autonomy has given him liberties and idiosyncrasies. His poetry reflects this fact. Each poem seems
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 3RD, 2011
arts & culture
nobel in literature, profiled
to emerge from an outsider’s curiosity, digging deeper than our superficial notions of life experience, or death: “One day I shall reply. One day when I am dead and at last free to collect my thoughts.” He even explores venerated themes (death, longing, disaster) with novel vision. Trite as it sounds, this is too often an exploration that contemporary poetry mires or obscures, or forgets altogether. In contrast to the murkily personal poetry to which we have adjusted, Tranströmer provides clear yet intricate images that speak unpretentiously to imagination. This is not to say that Tranströmer is anachronistic, stifled by classical themes to the point that he cannot evoke new sensations endemic to 20th/21st century life. But even when Tranströmer evokes new or nuanced emotions, he intuits sensations we have all felt without cognizing. Even at his most specific, he is rarely obscure: “The signal is: / ‘We do not surrender. But want peace,’” in “Allegro.” More relatable: “When someone who has lived in the house dies, it is repainted. The dead person paints it himself, without a brush, from the inside,” in “The Blue House.” Every image is close to exacting something we have felt too deeply to describe ourselves. In this way, Tranströmer is a worthy ambassador to
our self-understanding, one we can follow and trust. For this to be true, however, we need to receive him. The Tranströmerconscious generation is largely made of people old enough to be our parents and grandparents. Among the sub-30 American crowd, his name blends in with those of poets en vogue, without special distinction. The generation of Americans who are dedicated to Tranströmer is small, potentially non-existent. This would be more distressing if we lacked the resources to connect with such a special voice. In the wake of receiving the Nobel, Tomas Tranströmer is acquiring a greater general presence among readers of poetry. Still, his body of work is more approachable than its new celebrity status would suggest; he is not famously difficult. His website, maintained by an international team of devotees, offers a sampling of English translations. The ten poems on this website are ample grounds to appreciate the poet, with “After a Death,” “The Couple” and “Reply to a Letter” rivaling some of the best Yeats, Shelley or Symbolist poetry. For those who need
more, a large fraction of Tranströmer’s work has been translated by Robert Bly, an American friend of the poet with respect for his vision. The Half-Finished Heaven is the fruit of this joint project, which complements a strong set of translations from Scandinavian Studies scholar Robin Fulton. Knowledge of a poet like Tranströmer provides Brown students an outlet to understand both ourselves and ‘the dialogue of world literature.’ That is, we can hear in the Swedish poet a voice that speaks truly to each of our varied, confusing, and complicated life experiences, without being academic or cold. So often we look to American voices because we are familiar with their style and lexicon. But because he is so distant from us, we can also forget ourselves in the wonder of Tomas Tranströmer’s images, “as when a man goes so deep into his dream / he will never remember he was there/ when he returns again to his view.”
Dance, Dance, Dance
charles PLETCHER managing editor of features
Eiko and Koma’s performances begin slowly, so slowly that the viewer has trouble detecting movement but cannot shake the feeling that something—someone (the state of the dancers during their performances lies in question)—must have moved. When the movement picks up—sometimes after seconds, sometimes after minutes—it does so deliberately and almost painfully. Eiko and Koma adapt their performances to the demands of their aged bodies. They pick at the tension between creation and degeneration. Their performance, Regeneration, is “a program designed for the Retrospective Project”; it takes Eiko and Koma’s old routines and revisits them with new bodies. Awareness of their physical condition challenges the audience—there can be no suspension of disbelief. They admit that they cannot perform with the deftness of their youth, but they take unabashed confidence in physical decline and make their performance new again. “Regeneration I: Raven” begins with a figure on the floor. Its chest is bare and a ragged cloth covers its legs. Even with the bare chest, the figure looks strikingly androgynous. It contorts its upper body so as to hide vestiges of feminity. Its hair is disheveled and suggestive of Helen and Achilles at the same time. The androgyny and the body’s contortions make the audience unsure whether this figure is even human. Slowly, fluidly, the figure bends its upper body over—the audience can make out breasts. The figure is Eiko. Sound has punctuated the piece before this point, but the audience only becomes aware of a raven’s cawing in the background as Eiko extends her foot—willfully—into the air. Someone in the audience coughs. Eiko’s foot traces a slow arc. When Eiko’s body snaps in on itself, the audience jumps. The pain in her movements threatens to break her in half. She moves more quickly now, sometimes fluidly, sometimes jerkily, but always with a swiftness that belies the calculation behind her moves. Eiko avails herself of a large black cloth. A voice singing vaguely tribal music (in common time with a drum accenting every beat) takes over the raven’s squawking. Eiko appears to attempt to hide underneath the cloth. Eiko grabs fistfuls of long grass and holds them like wings. She stands, her props bundled in her arms. Koma appears, and he holds feathers over Eiko’s chest and she falls down but stands up again. New movements recall the piece’s beginning, punctuated by the drum and by the singing—and by guttural emissions from the two dancers. As one moves fluidly, the other moves in stop action. The props move from her to him. The dancers obscure who moves whom. They deprive the audi-
repetition and regeneration
ence of grounding. They assert the control performing has given them. The drumming and singing stop. Eiko stands over Koma, bending over him with jerking deliberateness. Koma falls over and rolls slowly as the raven caws from offstage. The raven, as Koma, appears to have died. Something else has taken its place: Eiko? Silence? The station of people in this performance has not been resolved—the performance treats its indeterminacy as its end. Just as Eiko’s body folds in on itself at the outset, chronology collapses. Relevance—what belongs in a performance and what belongs to the audience—has nothing to do with time. Eiko and Koma, an internationally acclaimed dance duo (they won the first MacArthur Fellowship to go to a collaboration in 1996), are in residency with the Literary Arts department this week. They hail from Japan but now call New York home. Their first performance was last night—hopefully you made it—and their final performance will be tonight at 8 p.m. in Granoff.
arts & culture
for the art magazine that organizes it, houses over 170 galleries from around the world in an impressive venue. A brisk walk through Regent’s Park— peppered with sculptures for the fair— brings one to an extensive tent complex designed by Annabelle Selldorf. The maze-like structure is comprised of an eternity of white walls smattered with minimalist placards. Careful curation, much of which is ingenious considering the space restrictions, endows each gallery’s booth with a distinctive ambiance. Art is dripping from the walls, floors, and ceilings of most of these booths, while a handful of galleries take the opposite approach with rigorously minimalist displays. The complex, which otherwise evokes the sense of a gallery on steroids, houses a few very curated trees as well as a trendy pop-up restaurant by Mark Hix. What the walls lack in color, the attendees make up for in panache. Clown-related performance art aside, the fair is a veritable catwalk and a see-and-be-seen. Top collectors like British advertising mogul Charles Saatchi and Connecticut hedge fund manager Steve Cohen have already combed through the fair’s offerings at Preview Day several days prior to the official opening. These collectors shape the contemporary art market,
a glimpse at contemporary art in london
and for any gallery “placing” a work in such an important collection is ideal. An assortment of waifish Chelsea girls and impeccably dressed men staff the booths, branding the galleries as glamorous. Teetering on skyhigh heels, the wives of Chinese business magnates and Russian oligarchs ponder Kapoor sculptures and take mental note of whether they would clash with the living room furniture. Hipster art enthusiasts sporting sunglasses to shield their delicate hipster eyes—did I mention that the fair is indoors?—provide somewhat snarky commentary that when overheard in snippets is quite entertaining (“Is that even progressive?” on two hamburger buns sandwiching…a hamburger bun). The crowd serves as a reminder that while art is a commendable intellectual pursuit, it also happens to be a luxury business. No one genre or style dominated the fair, though childlike art and neon tubing were quite prevalent. Postmodernism—largely in the form of reappropriated or mixed media works— and modernism—tangible splashes of medium, the communication of a human experience—happily coexisted. Video art, life-size installations, design, and sculpture had a strong presence, as did painting, drawing, and photography. My favorite piece? An unlabeled (in an interesting curatorial choice by Gagosian) photographic portrait and mirror contained within plexiglass. In an angry act evocative of voodoo, the artist partially burnt the photograph. Petals of ashes, wonderfully tactile, collect at the bottom of the frame. In an intriguing tension, the mirror and the photo compete for space and autonomy, yet together form an aesthetic whole and a story—of an ex-lover perhaps, or estranged friend. The work created a surprisingly intimate moment in the madness of the fair. Least favorite? Christian Jankowski’s “ready-made” (Duchamp throwback), in the form of a giant motorboat. For an additional £125,000, the artist’s signature could be tacked on to an already-hefty £500,000 price tag. Jankowski was accepting commissions for yachts. The whole concept came across as a bit tacky. One of my concerns about postmodernism and contemporary art in general was underscored by what I saw at Frieze. A fair amount of the art, motorboat included, was flash without substance. While there is value in art that exists solely for its aesthetic appeal, I couldn’t help but feel that many of the galleries missed a chance to intellectually stimulate and make socially relevant commentary. Furthermore, much of the art that did have something to communicate did so in a lexicon that was solipsistic, selfreferential, and probably somewhat inaccessible to those outside the hermetic art world bubble (case in point: the hopefully ironic title of Mike Nelson’s piece “Towards a lexicon of phenomena and information association, an intermediate home apparatus”). Refreshing and relevant exceptions included Kaari Upson’s piece on foreclosure, a striking Nan Goldin series on her friend Cookie’s battle with AIDS, the very legible anti-consumerist commentaries of Barbara Krueger, and a handful of Andreas Gursky photographs emphasizing the present-day precedence of global systems over the individual. Though the fair’s market undoubtedly shaped the choice of works shown, it would have been nice to see more of an engagement with the sociopolitical climate of today. It’s important to explore art and aesthetics, but art can—and should—also be capitalized upon as a vehicle for social commentary or even change. Hang-ups with some of its content and carnival-esque ambiance aside, I found Frieze Art Fair to be a fun and affordable way to spend an afternoon. An offshoot of Frieze comes to New York in mid-May; if you’re in the area and have a few hours to kill, explore what is bound to be an equally entertaining expansion. And don’t play favorites: check it all out, from Nan’s heartbreakingly beautiful photography to the WTF-inducing metahamburger poised atop its personal podium.
cassie PACKARD contributing writer
A lump of raw chicken meat on the floor. Misplaced clowns wandering the halls. The soft, barely perceptible clicking of projectors. Grouped, these scenes illustrate a few of the—albeit, odder—works at this year’s Frieze Art Fair in London. Though each art fair is unique, they all follow a general formula. At a prestigious and widely attended fair like Frieze, only the most competitive and renowned galleries are accepted after a rigorous application process. The galleries then pay for a booth and hope to break even with the cost of entry and art transport. It’s a crapshoot whether a fair will yield successful sales— sometimes a gallery makes a killing, and sometimes the booth next door is selling better works by the same artist and things simply don’t pan out. In any case, participating in a fair is a PR move, a chance to promote the gallery and the artists it represents as well as form or strengthen relationships with the wealthy and well-connected. It’s widely known that such overstimulating art fairs aren’t the best place for the viewing of art. However, these fairs are essential to art world politics: if a gallery doesn’t show, people may wonder if it lacks the requisite clout or economic means. The term “art fair” doesn’t do Frieze justice. Frieze, named eponymously
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 3RD, 2011
Me Jane, You Food
jane BRENDLINGER managing editor of lifestyle
Post Halloween, and aren’t you just dying to know what to do with all that leftover Halloween candy? Oh wait. You’re in college. You don’t have any. Can we all just take a step back and go for a walk down a sugar-paved memory lane to the Candy Land of yesteryear? A time when Halloween meant dressing in a decent amount of clothing and going door-to-door soliciting food from strangers, disregarding warnings of razor blades, all on one day, October 31st? I remember returning home, exhausted from my long sojourn, at 9:30 (and on a school night, no less). I’d sit in the homemade hoop skirt of my Scarlett O’Hara costume, pour out my loot on the dining room table, and take inventory, all while watching a Disney Channel Original Movie (Brink, anyone?). College has forever changed the tambour of this holiday. What was once an evening to indulge in childhood fantasy and satisfy sugar cravings has been extended to a week of drunken revelry. My biggest shock in college was realizing that I’d forgotten to pack a vast collection of fairy wings, ruby slippers, etc. Suddenly, I would need to dress up more than once, plus I’d have to impress demanding hipsters with my creativity. “Witch” just wasn’t going to cut it anymore. My costume needed to be ambiguous, accompanied by an expla-
Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker - Gene Wilder, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
nation, and I’d get bonus points for erring on the slutty side. I felt the pressure. High stakes. Now, the hot cider has been replaced by jungle juice, and the butterbeer is really just beer and cream soda, but hey, are we sober enough to notice? Sick to our stomachs from liquor instead of sweets, real comas instead of sugar comas. And though I’ve enjoyed this excuse for great, rather continuous, and somewhat exhaustive partying, (and really, who doesn’t want to dress up several times in a week—you don’t have to choose one costume anymore!), I miss the simpler, good-ole-fashioned fun. And the candy. In my hometown there was always one stop we’d be sure to make: the old mayor’s house. Decorations were always top-notch–strobe lights, tombstones with witty engravings, electronic zombies that’d pop out at you on their own accord. But we came for the candy. The rule was you could take as much as your hand could grab (bad news for my small carny hands, but I always did my best, tested my finger extension). And all of it, king-sized chocolate bars. No Dum Dums. No Jolly Ranchers. KINGSIZED. And then we’d return to the night, pillowcases swinging with their weight, feeling richer than we’d ever felt before.
If you want to relive your childhood, it’s never too late for now. Check out CVS for candy, and if you want to get creative, try this recipe. My roommate made these last week, and they are pretty lethal. She skipped the Rice Krispies and added melted marshmallows on top. Crazy rich: I think the krispies would help to temper the chocolate intensity, but I’d also jump for the mallows. So be a drug-brownie-pusher. Get out your crack spoon. 1 batch brownies (If you’re ambitious, you can make them from scratch. But really, there’s so much crap on top of these that it’s hardly worth the effort. I’d go for a gooey, undercooked box recipe.) 1/2 cup salted peanuts 1 cup chopped Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups 1 1/2 cup milk chocolate chips 1 1/2 cup creamy peanut butter 1/2 tablespoon butter 1 1/2 cups Rice Krispies Cereal Mix brownies according to directions, and bake for 20-25 minutes in a 9 x 13 baking dish. Remove, top with peanuts and peanut butter cups, and bake for 4-6 minutes more. While they are finishing baking, melt chocolate chips, peanut butter and butter in a saucepan. Stir in cereal. Remove brownies from oven and evenly pour chocolate mixture over top. Refrigerate for 2 hours before serving. Also pretty addictive frozen.
The Morning After
healing your hangover
chief layout editor
glass of Powerade. The amount of effort it had taken to get out of bed and shuffle the 200 meters to the Ratty (a feat which should not be underestimated) was absolutely worth it—when I’m hungover, I have dreams about this stuff. Your body loses electrolytes when you drink, which makes Powerade, Gatorade, Vitamin Water, and other fortified beverages perfect for the morning after. 3. The most important meal of the day Assuming you’re up for eating, have some eggs. They’re hot and yummy and you can put cheese on them if you want. Also, they contain cysteine, which helps your liver break down toxins left over from last night. Bananas are another underrated hangover-fighting breakfast food. They’re rich in potassium, which your body is probably craving—diuretics (like, um, alcohol) rob your body of potassium with every trip to the ladies’ room. And while many of us may immediately think of coffee after a particularly rough night, it’s worth mentioning that it’s a double-edged sword against hangovers. It’s wonderful in that it will wake you up and constrict your blood vessels, which can alleviate the headache you’re nursing. Unfortunately, it’s also a diuretic, and will only dehydrate you even further. If you want to go this route (and I wouldn’t blame you for it), just make sure you drink even more water. There’s really no such thing as too much water. 4. Kill the pain If you’re still feeling gross, over the counter painkillers will keep you going for a little while. Avoid acetaminophen (found in Tylenol) if you can--of all the painkillers, this one wreaks the most havoc on your liver. Trust me, your poor liver doesn’t need that right now. Take aspirin or ibuprofen instead, and take the opportunity to have another glass of water. 5. Hair of the dog Ernest Hemingway allegedly depended on a tomato juice and a beer to relieve his hangovers. Other people say a Bloody Mary at brunch can do magical things. I’ve only tried this method once, and it was Spring Weekend, so I can’t really attest to its effectiveness, except that it’s great if you want to get so drunk that you forget you were hungover in the first place. In general, this is a solution I wouldn’t recommend. I might also remind you that Hemingway was an alcoholic. 6. Sleep it off After having a good breakfast of Powerade, a banana, scrambled eggs, coffee, and a strong dose of Advil, you might as well crawl back into bed for another hour or so. Nine times out of ten, you wake up feeling fit as a fiddle. There’s nothing that sleep can’t fix. If a morning class precludes a well-deserved nap, well... That’s up to you.
Last Sunday morning, my roommate said the words that all college students have thought: “That’s it. I’m never drinking again.” The debauchery of the night before had gotten the better of her, and she was feeling the repercussions. I wasn’t faring much better, but I had an arsenal of hangover-curing tricks up my sleeve. While we all know that the best way to avoid a hangover is to not drink so much in the first place, sometimes circumstances arise (Halloween, family weddings, Saturday nights, Wednesday nights, et cetera), and that just isn’t a viable option. In those cases, here’s how to feel okay the next day. 1. Drink like a fish The best advice my mother ever gave me was, “For every glass of wine you have, finish a glass of water.” While I think she meant one should drink water concurrently with wine, I’ve found that sleeping with a full water bottle next to my bed is good enough. It’s almost always empty by the morning. Alcohol dehydrates you, which causes some of the symptoms of hangovers. Rehydrate and rebound. 2. Electrolytes: Get them in you A friend of mine once walked into the Ratty on a Sunday morning to see me wearing sunglasses, alone, staring at a full
n. critical reaction to a literary work about sex
or “schizophrenic” or “sufferer of PTSD” (though, in clinical terms, he may be all or one of the above), who rapes babies (or thinks he does). The book is incredibly vulgar in that it is the account of a bedridden infant-nympho, and its lexicon includes entries I can’t print here. But the thing about Babyfucker is that there’s no actual babyfucking in the book. Sure, there are brief and perfunctory descriptions of what such an act consists of; there’s a system by which the narrator decides which infant to violate and when. But most of the vulgarity the reader must apply to the text. We imagine the acts in far greater detail than they are presented to us, and in this, we are complicit in their grotesqueness. In the end, it becomes clear that the narrator does not actually babyfuck at all, but that his experience of his own culpability and grotesqueness (for reasons undisclosed) leads him to the word “babyfucker” as the ultimate, utmost description of vulgarity. I was rapt. You weird Brown professors get me every time with your bizarro assignments. I was riveted and grossed out and totally intrigued. After Babyfucker, I got my hands on Georges Bataille’s Story of the Eye and Chip Delany’s Hogg and then Dennis Cooper’s Frisk. These books subsumed my studies for a couple of days, as I sat in the library nauseated by their wickedness, perplexed by their candor, and ashamed of my rapture. These books are not erotica—these books are pornography. They’ve all been deemed “unpublishable” by one or another commercial press. They omit no detail of sexual violation and express no shame for their characters’ rapes, assaults, and victimizations. Above all, these books prove to my postmodern cynicism that literature can really do stuff to me. What am I trying to say? Go forth, peeps, and read some rape-fic? Put down your Foucault and pick up some Bataille? I don’t actually recommend that anyone read these texts. They are dangerous—to enjoy them, one must trust herself, her values, her emotions, her compulsions. They’ve been messing with my head since I cracked their creepy little spines. But I want to explain what I meant by calling Babyfucker inoffensive. I want to demonstrate that the experience of reading this book is a deeply personal experience and an investigation of my ideological, cultural, and ethical position as a reader. This book is not about me since it’s pretty established that I am not a babyfucker, but the experience of reading this book is about me and me alone. Babyfucker is blunt. That’s the whole gimmick: Nothing is candy-coated. After the initial shock, though, the bluntness begins to desensitize me. I was riveted, then stultified. I was rapt, and gradually unwrapped. Babyfucker was a lot less shocking once I learned to expect repugnance. Suddenly, I didn’t feel as dirty. I felt intensely moved by this narrator’s condition, but it is not something as uncomplicated as “compassion” or “charity.” My empathy has to reconcile with grotesqueness. What does it mean to be “unforgivable?” No such word exists in my liberal vocabulary, yet here I am, asking this of myself. So far, I have no answers.
Only at Brown would I be assigned to read a book entitled Babyfucker. It’s a lyric little microgasm bound in a cute pink and yellow volume, a surreal sphincter into some guy’s sick, impotent mind. Its publication caused one of the biggest cultural scandals in the postwar German-speaking world, and its reputation precedes and preponderates its content. It’s propelled by a mantric repetition of the phrase, “I fuck babies.” It makes Lolita look like a hymnal. But you wanna know the real shocker? It’s not even offensive. Okay, yeah, Babyfucker gets a 10 for shock value. Its title was so literal and assertive that I disbelieved its own literality and assertiveness. I figured it was just shockvertising, like when Benetton posted their AIDS-patient billboards in the 80s, or those posters of dying meth users with their skin rotting off. The title Babyfucker was supposed to shock me into buying the book, not convey some semantic truth about the text inside, right? Wrong. Babyfucker is about a babyfucker, an individual who transcends nomenclature like “pedophile”
etiquette advice for the socially awkward and their victims
Emily Postfake it ‘til you make it easy on the trigger
Dear Dorian, I’m currently in a long-distance relationship with a guy I met while studying abroad. We were on the same program in Rome, but now he lives in D.C. while I’m stuck here. I still get to see him about once a month though, which brings me to my real question. I understand that he’s very, very excited about seeing me, but is there anything that I can do, or that he can do when he is back home, that will help him last a little longer when we are together? Sincerely, Sadly Left Orgasm Wanting Dear SLOW, Orgasm timing, both your own and your partner’s, is an often neglected, but very important, part of sex. If erotic and cinematic depictions of sex were to be believed, then everyone would magically orgasm at the exact same time as their partner. Sadly, this is not the case. Major problems can arise if one person orgasms before their partner, decides that their job is therefore over, and then feels free to fall asleep or otherwise ignore their partner. Hopefully this is not the case with you, SLOW—if it is, I would advise you to have a conversation with your partner about his responsibilities in bed and how they include helping you reach whatever level of pleasure you desire. It doesn’t seem like that’s the case here, though. What we face is more of a mechanical problem: he’s orgasming before either of you wants him to, and it seems like, for whatever reason, he is unable to continue after he orgasms. There are a lot of possible solutions for this, including things he can do by himself and things that you can do when together. For starters, try out different positions and switch things up while you’re having sex. Changing the angles and types of stimulation that he receives can help him last longer, while also allowing you to get creative. You can also have him practice edging when he masturbates. Bringing himself repeatedly to the brink of orgasm and then stopping can help build stamina for when he’s in the moment with you, since his body will get more and more used to the idea of being on the edge without jumping off. Finally, if all else fails, Mister Sister sells a lovely desensitizing spray. It dulls the edge of the feelings, making them still delightful, but more manageable. Your Friendly Neighborhood Stag, Dorian so tedious.) Once upon, Lauren Bacall was a wide-eyed 19-year-old actress in her first film, and Humphrey Bogart was a jaded Hollywood star with a rocky marriage and a drinking problem. (Emily Post- relates.) He heard that smoky, sultry voice, and sparks ignited. Was Bogie held back by his comparative decrepitude or the minor issue of his marital status? No, CRUSH, he was not. He wooed the shit out of her, and less than a year later, they married. Seventy years after his heyday, women are still swooning over Humphrey Bogart. There’s a reason for this. He knew how to deliver a suave line, mix a stiff drink, and look at a woman like he wanted to rip her clothes off. Here’s a dirty little secret: sometimes women just want you to act like a man. We do not want you to dither about whether to approach us. Men are decisive. We do not want to pay for our own drinks. Men pick up the check. And we do not—Emily Post- repeats, do not—want to make the first move. Be masterful, CRUSH. If you’re not self-assured, fake it. Find a way to be in the same room with this girl, approach her, and give her the Humphrey Bogart eyes.
Dear Emily, I met a girl. Rather, I met a fellow actor. We were onstage together, auditioning for a university production. I couldn’t help but notice her doe eyes, but what really captivated me was her talent. The audition is over, and I’m left dreaming about this girl. Should I approach her? Try to forget our chemistry? Guide me. Sincerely, CRUSH Emily Post- is tired, and she has drunk too many mojitos. This is a night for weeping over To Have and Have Not, pining over Humphrey Bogart, and longing for the days when men were real men and smoking was permitted indoors. We’ve been intimate in a way, have we not, CRUSH? Very well. Light up a metaphorical post-coital cigarette (in a red lacquer holder, bien sûr), and let’s talk about how to woo a woman. You tell me that you can’t stop thinking about this woman. You tell me that your chemistry was electric. Now, allow me to tell you about another couple who met onstage. (Well, on set, but technicalities are