Why am I – silly, naive me – continually amazed by the sheer number and quality of women artists (and everything else) neglected, forgotten or erased from history? Because I am silly and naive, that’s why. Because, like all of youze, I was raised within the male created, designed and reinforced system, a system celebrating with very few exceptions the male canon and only the male canon of work, wrapped inside the ‘Great Men Made This World’ narrative, boxed up and delivered directly into my tender young brain cells by the patriarchy.
Imagine being a beautiful blonde woman in the sixties with the last name Boty? Ouch. Imagine creating works of art, most surrealist in nature, and finding out, while pregnant, that you have terminal cancer? Boty died on this day in 1966, at the age of 28 and if spell check makes Boty into both or body one more time… she refused to have the abortion that may have saved her life, and, tragically, both Boty’s husband, and the daughter she was unable to raise past 6 months old, died of drug overdoses, in 1977 and 1995, respectively. A legacy of pain, which also might explain why she was forgotten, along with the whole patriarchy thing?
The above is a self-portrait by Boty in stained glass.
Additionally, while researching Boty for this blog post, it seems her family didn’t ‘get her’, that her father disapproved of her choice of art – for school, as a career – and that after her much too early death, one of her 3 brothers stuck her art work in a barn on his farm where they sat – and were mostly destroyed – for 30 years. I cannot speak for British barns, but in America, barn swallows and other rural creatures do not care if that’s a work of genius on which they perch, nest, and shit.
Boty, it is also said, was the inspiration for the film Darling, starring Julie Christie, one of my favorite films, ever, very mod-1960s London with undertones of inescapable darkness. The physical resemblance between Christie and Boty? Also inescapable.
Many artists and humans of all sorts and interests die young, yet what potential and promise was lost when Pauline Boty died. I see Blake and Dali in her work, especially Blake in the image shared first below, but – while I have linked her wiki, let’s allow Boty’s work to speak for her, because what little survived fully demonstrates her talent is unique, beautiful, colorful, striking, and worth knowing, as is she:
*From the BBC, except – it can’t be real, can it? I certainly hope it is real, as it means this very fast, always in a rush walker will live a durned long time, and that my brain is about age 40? 35? LOL! I could give up my car – opting for friends, biking, or public transport – easier than dealing with being wheelchair or otherwise physically bound to stay in place – or so I think. Knock wood it won’t be an issue. Yoga. Walking. Swimming. Biking. Do it. But, back to the BBC:
The speed at which you walk can reveal profound insights into your brain’s rate of ageing – with slower walkers having smaller brains and fundamental differences in crucial structures.
It might seem trivial, but how quickly you can walk from A to B can reveal a great deal about the inner workings of your body and mind. Research has shown that the speed at which you walk to the shops, the local park, or the bus stop, can predict your chance of being hospitalised, suffering a heart attack, and even dying. In fact, a person’s gait speed can even be used to reveal their rate of cognitive ageing.
The walking speed test is a way of assessing someone’s functional capacity – their ability to perform daily tasks around the house and maintain independence. It can also reveal how frail a person is, and predict how well they will respond to rehabilitation after a stroke.
Although it is normal for people to walk more slowly as they age, a precipitous decline in the speed of someone’s gait could indicate that something more serious is going on.
“When a person’s normal walking pace declines, it is often associated with underlying health declines,” says Christina Dieli-Conwright**, a professor of medicine at Harvard Medical School, who studies the effects of exercise on cancer prognosis.
“It might be that the person has a chronic condition which has meant that they haven’t been moving as much or have become sedentary. That means that, more than likely, they’ve experienced a decrease in muscle strength, and joint mobility, which unfortunately leads to further health declines,” says Dieli-Conwright.
**I looked the good doc up; her research interests are listed as: Exercise Oncology, Muscle Physiology, Metabolic Dysregulation, Body Composition. Sounds good to me. Because, you see, I check my references and sources, including the BBC’s!: https://www.dana-farber.org/find-a-doctor/christina-m-dieli-conwright
It is, and how about maybe, just possibly reclaiming the ‘B’ word, not bitch, but BEAVER…I sent a couple of photos – seen below – of local beaver houses and, in a zoom, my female friends and the one guy present, could not say the ‘B’ word without blushing, laughing, or giggling. That’s ridiculous, and – in a culture where women and their body parts have been nicknamed and commodified – here we are.
So, here’s an idea I had, a thought, a laughing all the way to a public shaming idea – that I would open an Only Fans account called, say, Wild Beaver, or Beavers in the Wild or other iterations of that (which all might exist already? I’m not sure I want to find out), and use it to try to raise money for local charities that benefit my other, people-y neighbors thereby. I know, it’s nuts, but y’have to admit, it’s also pretty funny. Maybe first I’ll open a FB page called Beavers in the Wild, but don’t you think Zuck would block it? Hm.
I’ll have to give this more thought, clearly. In the meantime, aren’t these houses beautiful, yes, yes they are – as is reading about beavers, their intelligence, their cooperative lives and communities. If only humans were as smart, and wise, and good! I saw one swimming in one of their ponds while out walking the other day, and was thrilled, as they do anything and everything to avoid us (can’t blame ’em there). In Native cultures, Beaver represent building, building communities, building through cooperation, hard work and dedication. I love them. Love.
*I cannot tell a lie (unless cornered, then, watch me!) – I don’t GAF about Jeebuss, the Gossip-fuls, the Bibble and it’s mold or blue testaments but this made perfect sense to me, and – can we be real here for a mo’ – those Gossip-fuls were written and recorded a good two-hundred years after death, as well as being modified by those with an agenda from day one and ever since. Plus, I am looking for humor wherever I can (found, by the way, on the interweb without attribution). Not that this is funny, only – well, it’s light and I need that of late. And, it’s Monday, in summer. I should be at the beach, or lake… next week 🙂
There were 3 good arguments that Jesus was Black:
1. He called everyone brother
2. He liked Gospel
3. He didn’t get a fair trial
But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was Jewish:
1. He went into His Father’s business
2. He lived at home until he was 33
3. He was sure his Mother was a virgin and his Mother was sure He was God
But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was Italian:
1. He talked with His hands
2. He made wine with His meals
3. He used olive oil
But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was a Californian:
1. He never cut His hair
2. He walked around barefoot all the time
3. He started a new religion
But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was an American Indian:
1. He was at peace with nature
2. He ate a lot of fish
3. He talked about the Great Spirit
But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was Irish:
1. He never got married.
2. He was always telling stories.
3. He loved green pastures.
But then there were 3 equally good arguments that Jesus was Mexican:
1. He treated his mama like she was a saint.
2. He always wore llantas and a serape.
3. He was a carpenter who could fix anything.
But the most compelling evidence of all – 3 proofs that Jesus was a woman:
1. She fed a crowd at a moment’s notice when there was virtually no food
2. She kept trying to get a message across to a bunch of men who just didn’t get it
3. And even when She was dead, She had to get up because there was still work to do.
Which ain’t – in this instance, at all about sadness – but rather berries, which I love love love. a 20+ year tradition of picking blueberries in various u-pick orchards? patches!!, around my rural county. The best days to pick are cool and overcast, but I have picked in the rain because let’s let Mother Nature give me a rinse, the berries too, which I spend the rest of the day of picking rinsing once more, and freezing, tho not all. And yes, I have picked in the heat. That means another day of harvesting because – I cannot be out there long. When I picked these berries pictured, I gathered almost 15lbs.; I generally eat a solid pint or three for good measure. 🙂
One year I actually picked and froze so many I upset my freezer – in that the berries, full of summer warmth, were too much for the poor thang to handle. This taught me to put at least half of my harvest in the fridge to cool before freezing. But the experience of picking and eating and rinsing and bagging and freezing (and pancake making, for full disclosure) is so deeply pleasurable, it all makes me feel rich, sated, full, replete. Satisfied. I feel satisfied. In an anxious, restless, obsessive world – satisfaction is good.
At my home I have 6 blueberry bushes, which are getting there in terms of output (several pints, they’re young, still), but – good things take time. Thank you, summer.
