When I see half naked women on billboards, magazine covers, and commercials, I can’t gawk out of lust like most men. I can only feel every imperfection stinging on my body and think of how ugly and fat I am compared to this woman. I know that she is completely constructed by men using photo editing software, but I still want her beauty. Most other men, even the teenage boys I see everyday, don’t seem to know this or they just live in the hope and fantasy that maybe that woman really exists. Either way most men and young boys expect that girls like me, who are seventeen years old or even younger, can be that synthetic woman that is open for their taking.
One hot summer day, I put on a pair of jean shorts and a tank top with some sneakers to go to a friends house. I was fourteen years old and did not yet know that this simple and comfortable outfit could make me a target. I walked up the busiest street in my neighborhood with my school bag on my back eager for the day ahead of me. A couple blocks away from the house, a man who was probably in his mid to late twenties, slowly rolled next to me keeping pace with me. He yelled, “Hey girl! You need a ride?” I tried my hardest to ignore him and walk as fast as I could, but he chased me knowing I didn’t want to speak to him. He spoke again, “Come on, girl. You’re fine! Can I at least get your number? How old are you, baby?” I could finally say the words that had been swelling in my throat. “I’m fourteen,” I shouted back. He stared at me for a split second with awe glazing his eyes and then drove away as fast as he could, leaving tire marks on the road ahead. The tears began to well in my eyes and my cheeks began to burn. I had never known how much focus there always was from others on my body until this very moment. I wanted to hide away from the eyes of others as soon as I could, so I ran home to the safe haven of my bedroom. This memory sticks with me, because it is the first time I ever experienced street harassment. This experience made me realize how girls in our society are perceived as objects made for any man’s sexual demands. I learned that I was and continue to be one of the very many young girls that experience this harassment regularly and it disgusts me. Through research I found that around 50% of harassed women and men experienced street harassment by age 17 and more than half (57%) of all women had experienced verbal harassment, and 41% of all women had experienced physically aggressive forms, including sexual touching (23%), following (20%), flashing (14%), and being forced to do something sexual (9%). I also realized that we live in hypersexual society and these depictions of half naked women began to stand out to me even more. Knowing that I had eyes on me at all times made me very self conscious, and I felt like intolerable of the standard for women that surrounded me in advertisements. By growing up in this hypersexual society, I have become uncomfortable in my own skin and critical of every imperfection on my body and sadly I am not the only one.
Our society is exposed to more sexual images than ever before. Researchers from the University of Buffalo stated that, “In the 1960s, it was found that 11 percent of men and 44 percent of women on the covers of Rolling Stone were sexualized. In the 2000s, 17 percent of men were sexualized (an increase of 55 percent from the 1960s), and 83 percent of women were sexualized (an increase of 89 percent). Among those images that were sexualized, 2 percent of men and 61 percent of women were hypersexualized. ‘In the 2000s,’ Hatton says, ‘there were 10 times more hypersexualized images of women than men, and 11 times more non-sexualized images of men than of women.’ We encounter more sexual images in our daily lives than ever before and that in turn makes our focus on sex higher than ever before as well. A 2005 Kaiser Family Foundation study found that between 1998 and 2005, the number of sex scenes on TV nearly doubled. During prime time, 77 percent of shows included sexual content, averaging nearly six sex-related scenes per hour. Among the top 20 shows for teenagers, 70 percent included sexual content and 45 percent included sexual behavior. This content easily exposes children and teenagers, as well as adults, to sexual content and indicates how normal sex has become in our society.Growing up in a hypersexual society that exploits women causes many negative impacts the identity of young girls and boys. With this impossible standard of a perfect body hanging over their heads, young girls are becoming more self conscious and have very low confidence levels which can lead to even more serious conditions such as depression, anorexia, bulimia, self harm, and other disorders that arise from their bodily image. Boys in this type of society can also grow to have unrealistic body standards and sexual expectations for women. Both of these responses from a hypersexual environment create an eternal cycle that maintain each other. For this cycle to be able to diminish, our society’s identity must change to become less focused on sex and focus more on the self, but with the condition of our current culture this transformation is unattainable.
Throughout this second quarter we've been learning more abilities and ways of drawing and gaining more skilled at art. I feel like these small little assignment help me maintain my ability and skills. Throughout every assignment that we had there was a new thing that I learn or gain from it. and ever little assignment that we had we had to do a little research to know what we were doing. some things I knew and some of the things I did not know and there were some other things that I knew what had different methods of it. one of the most difficult assignment that I had in this quarter was drawing fabric. reason why is cuz I wasn't very good at visual drawing or wasn't very skilled at, but you have to try and in order to get better that's the only way that's the way it works. One of the things that influence me the most was the first assignment that we had art history there were many different objects to have different things and meanings.One of my main reasons continuing and learning about art and its history is because that's one of the things I enjoy the most. art can be applied to many things shooting and everyday thing or job/career. To backup on this, for example engineers architects factories anything that we use in our everyday life clothes shoes TV game consoles. All these things are in our daily life we use and obtain and everything. and the only way these objects were created was through the mindset of an artist or someone who has the ability of art which sense has along with the mass that technology and the hardware and everything that goes with it and in the material that need to be used with can be created. Are involved and every little thing.
I like cars, and I have specific cars that I like, and for many different reasons. The collage represents some of the type of cars that I like, and words that describe each car. to make the collage some people would have cut out the logos from magazines. That would have made it look better. I choose to draw each logo because drawing each logo was a fun thing to do. "Always enjoy what you do."
Shading is a very hard thing to do, especially when drawing a fabric. I chose to draw a fabric hanging by two pins because I was looking at a flag hanging on a wall, which gave me an idea of what I should draw and how to draw it. In the drawing I didn't draw the symbols of the flag, and just drew the look of the flag/fabric. In the end I really liked how the fabric looked, because I didn't think I could draw it that good.
I took this photo during a pickup Frisbee game, and it was a happy accident of how the photo actually looked. When I was taking the picture, I wanted to capture both the frisbee and the player throwing it, but I took it in the wrong time. Happy accident.
This illustration was my favorite part of all the drawings. I drew something that means a lot to me, and that I really like. I live soccer just like millions of people around the world. While thinking of a quote I wanted to represent I thought of "Football is life." But it wasn't a quote that could be drawn (at least in my mind). Than I added the rest of the part to the quote, which than I was able to draw what I wanted. The drawing came out really good, and I am really proud for myself because I didn't think it would look that good.
Let’s do a story about love. About the coldest war we’ve ever seen and how its outcome changed the world forever. First a little bit about the author. My father was a failed novelist who spent the majority of his days sitting at home behind a plate of mash and the television. Mother was actually a deceptively successful recording artist. She spent her days at the studio toiling away on tracks for musicians from all across the country; always hated discussing her work, the result of either humbling modesty or worn out vocal cords. We lived in a house too big to keep clean, just outside the city of HAM. Though not quite fully submerged in suburbia, it was still an ordeal to get anywhere notable to me as a little one. I began skipping out of school far too young, spending days on end with my good friend Louie Feppo who lived with his mother on the town’s endearingly run-down military base. Under the mother’s disapproving eye Louie and I would rummage through old photos and piece together blueprints. We read accounts from journals and war logs and played out the fantastic fantasies scurrying about the vast empty hanger. There were too many things in those logs we didn’t understand, things nobody could hope to understand at that point. Didn’t care. Later on, we would bring girls over and hook up in the cockpits of dismantled bombers. Some nights, kids from the city would bring their trucks, bottles, red cups onto the landing strip where we would turn on the flood lights and dance and boogie till sunrise. When they played top chart records, I could hear my mother’s voice behind the rest of the clatter and felt funny in my gut.
I moved far away from HAM at age nineteen, went to live on the farm with my uncle and his lover Dean. They had gotten too old to tend to their small orange field so they contacted my father and asked if it wouldn’t be too much trouble to send some help over. At that point father was too apathetic and had gained too much weight to be in any position to lend a hand himself, so he had the smart idea of plucking me out of school and sending my hand along to lend his poor brother. The TV’s had been flooded with some strange new programming in those months before I left, I remember all the kids were feeling how I was feeling. We wanted to get out of wherever we were; the farm would be a welcome change of scene. After what must have been around two weeks of intense farm work I was full of regret and my brain was all spent and my legs were near busted and the sickles had all rusted. Uncle and Dean were very considerate, for they seemed to have already accepted their own fate. The Arnold family farm gobbled up what was left of their orange stock and snatched up their land a heartbeat after they stopped showing up to marketplace. Seeing as that farm was just about everything Uncle and Dean had aside from each other, it starts to make some sense that the day after Arnold’s acquisition they decided to stick a pair of shotguns up their mouths. I was sick to my stomach over the whole ordeal and decided I wasn’t in any mindstate to go home; and, as much as I had started to miss Ma and Pa and Louie, the thing I missed most was dreaming about those airplanes flying. Louie’s old lady gave Yellow Hand Base up for demolition (From the good old grapevine I’ve heard it’s been since converted into an art gallery or something like that) and lastly I didn’t even know what HAM would be like if I came back around. It had been two years. Looking back doesn’t seem like a whole lot considering the hell I’ve gone through since; but to a young boy, two years reaping snatched away with no rewards felt like the worst fate a man could be given. I took what I could from Uncle and Dean’s place and slipped out quietly before anyone from Arnold’s found the place. Set out on a road that I thought would take me to NED Yolk but instead ended up about a hundred miles south in the city of Hillderbrandt. I had grown out a beard by the time I got into town, hated to look like that upon first contact. The morning coming into Hills was the first time I had seen a human who wasn’t looking over the wheel of a tin can in god knows how long. I could feel the age on my skin, and knew that things would be different when I struck real land. I just never imagined how different.
During my year on the streets and gutters of Hillderbrandt, I always dreamed of death. I dreamed about slipping away unnoticed by the masses, miles away from family, years away from loved ones. I was blending in with the dimness death even in harsh daylight. I wouldn’t have even put it past pedestrians to simply ignore my passing. My body would have most likely just been viewed as an accessory to the filthy back alleys; the working men and women need not even look. I dreamed these hilariously horrible dreams on the daily. But I never once dreamed that I, this lowly trash of a man, would be blessed by audience with the queen. It was at the point that my career as a vagrant had reached its nadir that I was contacted for to inform me of my visit with the queen in three months.
I hesitate to refer to those next three months as “short months” because we all know that a month is a month and no matter of eagerness or joyfulness can change the cycle of the moon. But I tell you, those months certainly sped by. Nearly the day after the Red Man attendant had shaken some sense into me on the roadside, I dreamed of something different. Even though I still lay in the dirt and shivered as the winter’s harsh jaw bite away at me, my dreams were no longer plagued. I had one particularly pleasant one that recurred quite often. It goes as such:
A soccer field near an old girlfriend’s house. Louie and I would often smoke a cigarette each and sip our sodas while we watched the older kids train for their tournaments or whatnot. The field’s once stadium-grade lights had all puttered out and so kids would climb atop the poles in admittedly dangerous displays of their acrobatic prowess. They would fill the burned out bulbs with bottles of homemade glowing jelly and leave them up there for maybe a week or so, just until they faded out and the ritual repeated itself. No parents were ever surprised when the headlines at breakfast told of local children turned into splats on the ground after attempting to better illuminate their drunken football matches. Eventually they weren’t even honored with headlines, just shoved to the third or fourth page inserts above the bicycle ads. Anyway, in the dream at hand, there were no children plummeting from those towering lampposts. In fact I was alone with Louie, and the field was only lit by moons. There were more trees than usual, and it was quieter than usual, and the buildings were bigger than usual, Louie dressed the usual. He looked very sexy in moonlight, and we were both cold and he wore a scarf and there was a creek that had started to crackle a ways away from the pitch. All of a sudden there was an airliner with a red tail landed in the midfield. It looked at once like it had been ripped from the black and white photos we always poured through, as well as from an image of childhood. Reminded me of the plane with the red tail that my father often described when recounting the fable of Home Sweet. I don’t know if the tail was his own added detail or part of history or part of myth or what. Louie and I climbed in through a series of complex hatches, we spent ages fumbling around under the belly looking for the right dos and don’ts. It was still dark but we both grinned gleefully. The interior, though dusted with healthy a coat of dust, kicked around with some hard kicking boots, still riled me up inside. I ran my hands along the torn stretches of velvet on the seats, and I didn’t care that this creature was a relic. It was romantic.
Louie had managed to pry open the door to the cockpit, colored lights were flipping and flopping around gaily under their own coat of dust. It was still too dim to make out any labels. I pulled a flashlight out of my opposite hand and batteries out of somewhere else. There was a spurt and a sputter, then a warm and gooey stream of golden gold poured out across the control panel. Louie was fascinated by all this stuff, and I was fascinated by him. He pulled out an instruction manual from some sort of glove box and collapsed into the captain’s chair. I sat in the seat behind him and adjusted my seat so we were level with each other. There was a green captain’s hat in my lap and, after a once over to get rid of the dusty film, I slapped that old thing onto Louie’s head. He ignored his head, eyes locked on the diagrams. I wandered back into the main cabin, took off my muddy boots and straightened my socks. The black cotton worked wonders on the cherry wood floorboards. I slide up and down the aisle, propelling myself along with the springy spring seat backs. I was maybe ten years old. Some five minutes had passed and I was still lost in my sliding, I had gotten a really good one going too. All the way from the back of the cabin, around the galley, to the main passenger seating area. I felt like an ice skater as I swerved and spun and then I stopped. By the time I had flung myself halfway up the fuselage, time had stopped and I was still. I whipped my head around to see what was the matter and my eyes were caught by the window to my left. I scurried into the seat closest to it and stared out. The moonlit field was rotating before my eyes. I felt it in my stomach and I thought I was going to be sick. I felt in my head and then my ears and I thought I was going brain explode myself. When I pried them open a moment later the field was gone and I could see moons ten times brighter, I could see clouds and birds and even bigger pelicans flying in place. Flying with us. I rolled out of my seat, wracked with astonishment, and sprinted into the captain’s cabin. Louie turned to me and beamed. I followed his finger, pointing straight ahead, and fainted. We were in clouds together.
This is an extra scene of what I imagined happened in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road...
Before, they lived with two men and one woman with a child. They took shifts watching for the roadrats. Rumors passed around about people who left the town at night for food or water. Some heard their screams, others heard the chopping. He held her close every night. He could feel the child kicking her skin. Translucent and full, like the moon they would never see again.
The men proposed to move to the next town. They left in the day a week later. The two men held the weapons in the front of the group. The first night was cold. He fell asleep with his pistol beside him and the child between her and him.
He awoke to leaves rustling a few yards away. The two men stood by the woman whose mouth was stuffed with a dirty rag. Her child was limp in between her spread legs. One man leaned down to whisper to her and the other unzipped his pants. She began to sob. He fired once and then twice. Two florid splotches appeared on their heads as they fell.
He untied her hands and feet while her limbs shook. The brains of the child were spread on the ground.
They told me they were going to cook my baby.
He didn’t notice the knife until her hand flashed towards her heart. The color of her face drained onto her clothes. They left the bodies and walked back to town.
For my piece, I chose the quote that stuck with me after I had finished the book. I really like this quote because it really has some connection to the book’s essential questions. The quote is found on page 10 when the boy and the man pass some dead bodies. The boy doesn’t seem to be fazed when he sees the bodies but the man comments on how things stick in your head and the boy points out that the man forgets things. The man replies with “Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.” I thought that this was an interesting quote because it seems as if it had been told to the man by someone else before and I wanted to write about the situation that he would have been in.
I chose to write about cannibalism and morals because that was a huge part of staying the good guys for the boy. Every time they saw evidence of cannibalism, the boy would ask the man if they were going to stay the good guys. The man must have had an experience where he decided that he would never be a cannibal but early enough that the boy wouldn’t have remembered it. If the boy would have remembered a time where they were close to becoming the bad guys, I don’t think that he would have been as innocent as he was portrayed in the book. Some of the essential questions that I thought about in my brainstorm were, “Where do morals come from?” and “Who or what do you live for if there is nothing left?” These fit into my piece because this would be one of the moments that probably would have shaped the man’s morals and then in time, the boy’s morals. The woman in the piece (not the mother of the boy), kills herself in the end because her son is dead. This shows that she was only surviving and living because of her son.The word I chose to include in my piece was “florid” which is an adjective for reddish, ruddy, and, rosy. This word is usually used in a happy sense because the word’s origin in Latin, meaning to bloom. McCarthy’s writing is not happy at all, so it wouldn’t have made sense to use it. In other books and stories, authors would use the word to bloom when a character would get shot. I used “florid” when the man killed the two other men because it was one of the only times that there would be color described in the piece or even the book.
The work that I did was based off many others. I thought that maybe I could reflect like a mirror image of what people do daily. What it means to be an artist to me is showing how you feel on a simple piece of paper. I used many different tecniques to make my work the way it is. All of my work was inspiration, I felt like I had to make the things I did, take a picture. I drew what I saw and I thought was worthy and was very different something no one would have though of doing. I was inspired by many but only I knew what I wanted to do.