You are Black Gold, Black Gold, Black Gold. You are Black Gold.
“Black Gold” by Esperanza Spalding
“life sometimes is cold and cruel baby no one else will tell you so remember that you are…black gold…”
esperanza spalding is just so god damn beautiful
it’s already been said.
Last yr, I learned no single soul on earths love or approval is needed for selfvalidation or selflove, none but your own.
That as much as we’re all connected, im ultimately tied to no one and as much as its scary and breaks you when youre taught you need certain peoples backing,
Darkened Cities by Thierry Cohen imagines the starry skies we’d see in urban areas if we turned off all the lights.
About the project:
Before these pictures can exist, the sky from one place has to be superimposed upon cityscape from another. It is impossible to see this detail in the night sky above a city. Atmospheric and light pollution combine to make looking into the urban sky like looking past bright headlights while driving.
By travelling to places free from light pollution but situated on precisely the same latitude as his cities, Cohen obtains skies which, as the world rotates about its axis, are the very ones visible above the cities a few hours earlier or later. To find the right level of atmospheric clarity, Cohen has to go into the wild places of the earth, the Atacama, the Mojave, the western Sahara.
As more and more of the world’s population becomes urban, and as we lose our connection with the natural world, so it becomes plain that damage is caused by light pollution. There may be connections to certain cancers, and there are psychological burdens of permanent day. The ‘city that never sleeps’ is made up of millions of individuals breaking natural cycles of work and repose. Lose sight of the sky, and you become a rat in a lab.
Cohen hasn’t simply shown us the skies that we’re missing. His cities look dead under the fireworks display above No lights in the windows, no tracers of traffic. They are (in fact) photographed in daylight, when lights shine out less brightly. In urban mythology the city teems with energy and illumines everything around it. Cohen’s pictures are crafted to say the opposite. These are cold cities, cut off from the seemingly infinite energies above.
Wow! I am absolutely in LOOOVE with these!
Asian Women are ____________________
In response to the vandalism and hate crime at UCLA, VSU started a photo collage that mimics the signs that were posted on the VSU office and in Ackerman Union. We asked people to write what they thought Asian women embody. These were some of the responses
I noticed my last post (“Asian Women Are… none of your fucking business”) got some attention, so I wanted to put my reaction into some context.
I don’t want to derail a good thing. A response to the message on the VSU banner saying that Asian women are “white-boy worshipping Whores” [sic] was necessary. It was a hateful act of vandalism, and it definitely wasn’t funny.
As someone who identifies as an “Asian woman,” my body is constantly being defined by others. I’ve been told I’m not Asian enough, not feminine enough, or that I’m too Asian, or too feminine to be taken seriously. Or my eyes are this way so I can’t be this or that “kind of Asian” or that only half-Asians can be beautiful. Chinky, FOB, bitch— yeah, I’ve been called all those things.
I work in a Viet-women run open mic space, and more than once I’ve encountered men who feel they need to say something “as a man.” (This blog post, which I still haven’t received a response to, feels the need for a “male voice” in a description of a past event). I’ve heard men recite poetry using a woman’s body as a metaphor for whatever stand it is they want to take, including comparing a war-ravaged country to a woman’s raped body. I’ve heard men take on women’s voices, giving “voice to the voiceless.”
I come from a place of love and compassion and as someone who is and always will be developing her own craft when I say that I’m sick of this shit.
My body is not a meta-playground where you can talk about oppression with more oppression. Comparing my body to an object is objectifying my body.
My identity is not limited to who I choose to date, nor is it defined by blanket statements of positive vocabulary. I like the last picture, of the one who says that “Asian women are my family.” Asian women are my mother, who busts her ass every day to make sure my dad stays alive; my sister, who helps to pay my parents’ mortgage; my grandmother in Vietnam who I may never see again. You know, individuals.
I am an Asian woman. I think too much and work too hard and sometimes I’m too tired to deal with people. I’m deeply flawed and working on it. My family is sacred. My body is off limits. I have a voice, and I’m not afraid to use it, but it doesn’t mean I have to all the time.
I’m an Asian woman and I’m none of your fucking business.
Well said. Asian women are the reason I exist, my ancestors, creators, shapers, teachers, elders, aunts, sisters, nieces, peers, colleagues, friends. Asian women are irreducible to any catchphrase.