Fig. 72. Jilroy Frosting. Self-Portrait with Feminist Coffee Table Art Book. 1987. Megapixels and cellulose on mylar. 3″ x 3″.
If there’s one thing a spinster aunt can count on an Art Week to accomplish, it’s this: swollen lobes. Some Savage Death Islanders, voluntarily considering Art and Feminism, have lifted up their hearts and sung, and the chorus is this: “it’s not art if I don’t like it.”
I get it! Like, if you are unenthusiastic about 2008 Chicken Butt Viognier, and somebody hands you a glass at the taco-tasting party, you don’t say, “this damned Chicken Butt is too green and minerally to pair well with smoked avocado tacos.” You merely state that it isn’t wine. End of discussion. Talk to the hand. Well, perhaps you insinuate that wine is elitist first.
So. Certain Internet aunts might view talk-to-the-hand as a pretty self-absorbed, and not terribly compelling, argument, particularly in terms of an intellectual atmosphere conducive to feminist revolt, but maybe it’s merely indicative of the zeitgeist of 21st century feminism. Our ism has been decimated, ladies. Decimated by unceasing attacks from outside the ranks, by internecine feuds, by the Spice Girls, by knobjectivists blogging that feminism is a fucking buzzkill, by the massive popularity of recreational sexism in consumer pop culture, by spinster aunts, and by other stuff. Even spinster aunts don’t bother calling it a “movement” anymore, except with a sardonic lip-curl. Everyone has her own feminism now.
New! [Your Fantasy Feminism Here], tailored to your own unique lifestyle!
Well, we’ll see how far that takes us.