I’ll give you trite!

Several years ago I was looking at a Rothko painting with my then boyfriend. I like Rothko. He’s not my favorite color field artist (that would be Morris Louis) but seeing the evolution of his paintings in order and you see his life in the most basic, wordless sense. See, he committed suicide and you can see the darkness and heaviness evolve from the bright lightness in his later works.

So then boyfriend looks at the piece and says “I hate modern art- it’s so obvious these guys were just doing it for the money!” My fabulous retort was “You’re a fucking graphic artist for christ’s sake- all you do is make art for money!”

Then there was another not-quite boyfriend who was trying to get me to listen to yet another insufferable angsty white boy band. Don’t get me wrong, there are lots of angsty white boy bands in my repertoire and I don’t rock the indy-pop queen title for no reason, but this band was a hair’s breadth away from being Creed. I wasn’t into being all worshipful of the tormented band, so I was told my music (at the time I was heavy into the reemergence of disco punk like Franz Ferdinand and Gang of Four) was “trite”. Uhm Hello! They may be tongue in cheek, up beat and danceable but that’s just to make the subversive bits go down easier.

“Trite” is a fabulous way of minimizing the importance of art that bugs you, and though the references I made above were to things made by men, trite is usually used for art made by women. Sonia Delunay and her textile designs were “trite”. Judy Chicago and her dinner plates were “trite”. I am sure someone probably even thought that Frida Kahlo’s iconic paintings were “trite” little pieces next to her husband’s much larger and simpler political murals.*

So then I saw this piece on Pandagon– A woman artist, Amber Hawk Swanson, buys herself a real doll modeled after herself and experiments with the idea of what it’s like to own in every possible way a submissive female. I think the idea is brilliant, the photos I’ve seen are disturbing and awesome and I hope that someday I can see the results in person.

But of course, someone has to get all “I’m the bigger critic than you” and call it “predictable and trite”. But predictable and trite wouldn’t garner the kinds of serious and interesting questions that this piece has raised- would it? I mean trite is usually something that lacks “the freshness that evokes attention or interest” (thank you Merriam Webster- though I prefer the OED, your online dictionary is free). I would think that if this piece were really “trite” then there wouldn’t be all this questioning about what it means to appear to be subjugating your own image or if the brainless, opinionless, impossible to achieve in real life body of a real doll is what men really want. The questions, the thousands of questions that this piece of art evokes should be enough to prove that this is by no means a “trite” piece but a thought-provoking thing of interest.

Things made by women are not automatically “trite”. But they get called that in order to minimize their importance and to silence their creators. Trite things are obvious- hummels are trite, Cathy cartoons are trite, most Hallmark cards are trite. Every fat guy, hot wife sitcom is trite (and those I’m sure were produced by guys). Most romantic comedies, every Adam Sandler movie except Punch Drunk Love, Norman Rockwell and Thomas Kincaid paintings, and every single commercial ever made for a household cleaning product are both trite and predictable. A woman showing images of herself in dominant, sexual positions over a doll of herself is not trite. It’s disturbing, and that is why it is successful as a piece of art. It conveys what the artist wanted it to convey.

*I also once a had potential suitor, a fabulously wealthy art collector, call my own work “primitive” as if it were a good thing. I use a lot of the line styles that made men like Matisse and Leger and Klee famous, though I doubt any collector worth their salt would call works by those with penises “primative” unless they also happened to be brown. Which this guy did- he was comparing my work to some of the paintings he had picked up cheap on his last art buying trip to Cuba.

Now that you’re a Mrs……No pony for you!

Last weekend I went as the faux-lesbian date of a friend to a wedding. I do the faux-lesbian wedding thing more often than you think. I’m a riot at a party and for some reason women are under the mistaken opinion that attending a formal social function put on by people that are not strangers by yourself is the hight of shame. Wev. I’m just there for the free booze.

So the wedding last Saturday was the big production deal that most people associate with a bridezilla personality. Except- it wasn’t at all what the bride wanted. The bride, a very low key, funny girl, wanted to elope to Hawaii. It was the groom that wanted the production. The bride didn’t get the wedding she wanted, but she loves the guy. She didn’t get the dress she wanted, but she loves the guy. She didn’t get much of anything that she wanted, but you get the idea.

As soon as the big production vows were over, the in laws started asking about kids. The bride joked about how maybe she wouldn’t be working for long- she’d just spit out a few kids and stay at home. Funny thing is, she doesn’t want kids. At all. She wants horses instead.

I also spent alot of quality time with the bride’s new sister-in-laws. All of them have several children and a strained quality to them. One of them, whose oldest daughter is the same age as the Kid, and I were having a good talk about parenting. It was one of those moments where the cracks in the shiny mommy veneer show and you can say that sometimes you don’t like being a mom very much or that sometimes you’re not as good to your kids as you should be. I prefer those talks to the “greatest thing I’ve done with my life” talks because we all know that is what we’re programmed to say.

Whenever I have these conversations with married moms (or even a lot of child-free people) it goes the same way.

Other Person: Wow, you have a 12 year old! You must have been really young.
Me: I had him a week before my 20th birthday.
OP: Is his dad involved?
Me: No, we were engaged until I found out I was pregnant. I decided I wanted the baby but not the marriage.
OP: That must be so tough to do it on your own.
Me: Not really, I prefer being the only one in charge. I don’t share authority well. (Let me clarify this remark- parenting is hard, but it is easier for me to do it on my own than to play nurse-mommy-maid-whore to a grown up boy while being mommy to a child).

So my conversation with the sister in law went almost word for word the same way, except when I mentioned not marrying Kid’s dad. She was awed for a second, and said “That’s amazing that you knew at that age not to get married”. Now, I must admit that I knew she’s been having marriage problems before I met her (people tell me shit) so it was a little telling in the kinds of questions she asked me that she’s been considering divorce. I was honest. And we were both pretty open about how hard having kids is to begin with. (Pre-teens and teens are rough phases for kids that will try the best parent’s patience- dirty secret is that though we love our children more than you can imagine, we don’t really like them much for awhile).

So imagine my surprise when 2 minutes later the bride asks if having kids is hard and the same woman says “You don’t even notice it”.

You.Don’t.Even. Notice. It. WTF!

My head was about to explode. Why do we feel the need to lie to people about the joys of parenthood? Trust me, you notice it.

When you haven’t slept in six months and your nipples are constantly sore- you notice it.

When yet another diaper has exploded with toxic poop all over your last clean shirt- you notice it.

When you’ve nearly lost your mind because you pre-schooler WILL NOT PUT ON HIS SHOES and you’re late for work (again)- you notice it.

When you’re sitting in another parent- teacher conference in a tiny chair with the full knowledge that an imbecile is teaching your child nothing and you will have to make up the difference for 6 hours every night – you notice it.

When you’ve repeated the phrase “Do your homework” so many times that you can’t remember if you can say anything else- you notice it.

Parenting is hard work. It’s drudgery most days. And you notice every minute of it. You shouldn’t be a parent unless you absolutely want to. And we shouldn’t keep lying to women about how joyful it is. It has it’s moments, but