Oh, hey! It turns out The British are up to something both pleasant and amusing, for the ladies. It is a “feminist postcard art auction,” with images intended to demonstrate something or other about the state of contemporary feminism. So far, so well-intentioned. Thumbs up, The British!
But have you ever wondered, ladies, what a DUDE ARTIST might contribute to such an auction? Specifically, whether or not he could find a way to make the point that feminism has rendered everything terrible? And also, whether he could work a cum shot into it? Because if your answers are “maybe,” “no,” and “oh, Jesus Christmas, really???!?” I have got your answer! (Fair warning: Your answer is NSFW.) (Because he put a cum shot in it.)
Behold the work of David Rusbatch, as he illustrates the Fall of (Wo)Man!
Before feminism, you see, the ladies were adept in the arts and such. We learned these skills at the feet of great and powerful male Artists, who slept with us, and also occasionally our sisters. Oh, sure! It seemed like a raw deal! But then, the suffering fueled our Art! We were also capable of finding recognition for our work, and of being relatively powerful activists, because that was totally common and not at all a very rare exception to The Rules. We lived in lush and beautiful paintings, and there was some sort of monkey involved.
Then, feminism came. All the ladies were gross and mad, and there was yelling! Like Germaine Greer, who — as has been pointed out by redlightpolitics, our source for this important yelling-related news — was actually kind of regarded as a sex symbol, in her time? Whether or not you like the lady’s politics (I pretty much don’t!) it takes a certain commitment to staying on-message to find the most unflattering photo ever in the world of The Saucy Feminist That Even Men Like and present that as your face of Feminism. And, of course, the message is: Feminism came, and all the ladies were gross and mad, and there was yelling!
Then there is “post-feminism.” Which, as far as I can tell, has so many potential uses that it might not even be a word. Like, it could mean: “Taking place and/or existing in an era that has come after the second wave of feminism, and the change in gender roles second-wave feminism has affected,” in which case I’m post-feminist, and so are you. And so is your mailbox! And your dog, Roscoe! And the band Wavves! OR, “post-feminism” can mean “possessing an ideology significantly informed by and in accordance with many of the tenets of second-wave and first-wave feminism, but standing outside of and possessing freedom to criticize those movements.” In which case, I am also a post-feminist. And so is your dog, maybe, but I have no idea. (“Third wave” basically means this same thing, by the way, but if you type it people will vomit. We are all sick of the wave-talk, right now! We are through with waves, forever!) The other other thing “post-feminism” can mean, however, which is the reason you are ill-advised to use it in polite conversation even if the only other choice is to use the term “third wave,” is “let’s all hit ourselves on the head with bricks until we can take Camille Paglia seriously.” Which, yikes.
So, “post-feminism.” It’s a complicated concept! And in the midst of this confusion, a man — no mere man, but an artist; no mere artist, but David Rusbatch — has come forth, with yet another definition. The definition is: Cum shots.
So, to recap: First, we were geniuses. Then, we were harpies. And now, we’re whores. Such are the works of feminism! Behold them, and tremble!
Fortunately for David Rusbatch, I fancy myself quite an expert on this whole “feminism” deal, as well. In fact, I have created an Internet weblog upon the subject! This is basically the equivalent of several doctoral degrees. As an expert on feminism, I would advance to you, the audience at home, that the whole “pre-feminist/feminist/post-feminist” deal occurs, not only in the macrocosm of world history, but in the microcosm of each individual lady or gentleman’s life. “Pre-feminist” and “post-feminist” are states; “feminism” is the catalyst that takes you from one to the other.
According to this theory, we can imagine each woman’s life as a long plane ride. It is cramped, it is full of obnoxious strangers, and the snacks are always disappointing. Also, there are sexists in it. Flying it! Giving safety instructions in it! Handing out disappointing snacks! Pre-feminism is the point at which the woman comes to think, “you know, I think maybe the arrangements on this plane are unfair? Maybe even sexist?” Feminism is the point at which she realizes, “holy shit! This plane is full of sexism!” And then there is the “post-feminist” stage of life, during which the woman announces to all and sundry, “I AM SICK OF ALL THIS MOTHERFUCKING SEXISM ON THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLANE.” Also, she gains the power to extend jokes several years past their natural life span. It’s just how these things work! I don’t know why!
Accordingly, a woman viewing this Important Piece of Art may have several reactions, depending on where she stands in her own personal plane journey. Allow me to chart them for you!
Pre-Feminism: There’s something off about this. It makes me uncomfortable. I’m tempted to say something, but, you know, I don’t want to be disruptive or sound harsh or anything. It’s art; maybe I don’t get it.
Feminism: Men have occupied a position of unfair privilege within the arts for, lo, this many a century, and have also been granted an unacceptable authority over the truths of women. They craft our narratives; they decide on the merits of our behavior; they are even granted more authority when making proclamations on our essential character and motivations than women are. We, as women, must reclaim our power and our narratives once more! We must not grant men the illusion of authority or expertise when we know they do not possess it in reality!
Post-Feminism: Shut the fuck up, David Rusbatch.
Granted, the first position on this spectrum is where a lady is supposed to find herself. It’s where all ladies are supposed to find themselves in relation to all male artists, and also males in general, forever. It’s nice, it’s appreciative, and nobody has a problem with it. It can get you far. Truly, there is nothing that the “gawrsh, Mister, you mean you’re going to let little old me sit here and listen attentively to your various opinions? Can I nod appreciatively and agree with you sometimes, too? Why, I’m the luckiest gal the whole gee-golly-darn world” attitude can’t buy you. Except for, you know, self-respect. And the possibility that these dudes might shut the fuck up eventually. For that, we have to proceed through Phases Two and Three of the imaginarily jizz-splattered continuum.
And yet, there is a price to pay! The price is that dudes will depict you as a shrieking harpy or jizz-soaked harlot. On a postcard, or maybe just when they’re out with the bros. Also, they’ll get very mad about the “shut the fuck up” dictum, because they were under the impression that they were specifically licensed to talk forever, pausing only to have high-minded debates (which are nothing like the shrill and base accusations hurled by you, Super-Bitch) with their fellow men. So, you know. Harsh!
Except not really. Of all the things in this world that can possibly happen, changing important parts of a violently unjust system and then having an unflattering photo of you put up on a postcard with the implicit accusation that you’ve led every girl in the world straight to a life of non-stop bukkake actually ranks near the top of the list. Never having to take this business seriously at all? Even better. Not having to live in a world where a dude can hand in a bukkake shot taped to a piece of white paper with a caption reading “post-feminism” to an art auction, and have that piece accepted by the curators of said auction, who I imagine to have said something like, “wow, thanks for your totally on-point and innovative contribution; our favorite part is how we can tell you were really trying, and took it seriously as well” — well, that might have to wait until the post-post-feminist era. But that will be the sweetest day of all.