My Favourite – Art Films

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Persona

The art house cinema finds its definition, firstly, in how its main imperative is the need to achieve expressive merit… as opposed to entertainment value or commercial gain. That is not say that art films cannot, like high concept Hollywood, provide entertainment sustenance, but this is secondary to the aim of the continuous re-invention of what the cinematic form can be. As a result, the art house film is less easy to define, in some respects, than genre cinemas that have aesthetic and narrative specificities.

So art house cinemas are perhaps best approached in terms of creative history and film movements.  What constitutes an art film movement? Arguably the first art filmmakers were the Russian formalists. A group, mostly known by the works of Sergei Eisenstein, who helped re-invent film form via the utilisation of the ‘edit’. Soviet films like Strike and Battleship Potemkin, cinematic weaponry in service of the Soviets, employed editing techniques designed specifically for audience manipulation (it is worth noting that all forms of cinema have to degrees, employed their editing techniques ever since). Unlike previous cinemas, that imitated theatre techniques simply to ‘tell the story’, these films sliced shots together to ‘build a picture’.

It may seem obvious to us now, because we are so literate in cinematic language, but the early cinemas began by simply training the camera onto the subject or object and rolling the film. The camera was, then, a conduit for the ‘theatre spectator’. Eisenstein and his mates went their own way. They cut up the film reel and glued the shots back together into formed sequences. Instead of just watching the Tsarists forces crushing the proles,  those scenes are spliced into shots of a bull being slaughtered. Two different events, no literal relationship, montaged together, and you have a new meaning. And because this is an incredibly insidiously emotive methodology, you can manipulate your audience into making them feel what you want them to feel. Often, and eventually, so subtly, that the don’t even know it is happening.

Spend any time at all consuming not only films, but advertisements, music videos even party political broadcasts, with this history in mind, and you will realize that Sergei and the Formalists have a lot to answer for.

So on the one hand, art film is about recreating what the form can do (which can then be later assimilated into commercial culture) but it is also about recreating, re-evaluating, how we view the world, people, relationships. Not simply a mode for telling dramatic tales, but for exploring the nature of storytelling itself. Not simply a method for introducing characters, but for investigating what it means to be a character, or human more generally.

David Bordwell suggests that art cinema follows the modernist literature of the 20th century in this respect. Makes sense, like time wise, and stuff. The author creates protagonists that are psychologically complex and stories which may not achieve a simplistic resolution. However unlike the author’s pen, the auteur utilizes the ‘camera pen’.

Influenced by the previous decade’s Italian neorealists, and Hollywood directors such as Alfred Hitchcock, members of the French New Wave, such as Jean Luc Godard and Francois Truffaut, wanted to move away from literary adaptations to realize the cinema as an art form in its own right. Not simply another way of telling old stories or bringing the theatre to the screen.

The New Wave’s work, in films such as Godard’s Breathless – an art house cult classic if there ever was one – and Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, proved influential to the High Modernists of the ‘60s and ‘70s. Auteurs such as Fellini, Antonioni, Pasolini and Bergman created films that can be seen as the paragons of the art cinema. Bergman in particular, with his mode of high seriousness and philosophical inquisition, and Fellini with verbose tales of Italian society, sexuality and hypocrisy, were indeed the grand masters of the art cinema. Like the Hemingways and Scott-Fitzgeralds of literature, they weaved their creative worlds, employing distinctive styles recognizable across a body of work.

Since then, the auteur and the art house have been near inseparable. In the 1980s, this was as broad as Peter Greenaway’s theatre of debauchery and colour in films such as The Cook, The Thief, His Wife And Her Lover, David Lynch’s surrealism in Blue Velvet, and Kieslowski theology in Dekalog.

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The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover

In 1995, however, a group of Danish filmmakers, established The Vow of Chastity, a new set of rules for a new brand of filmmaking. The Dogme ’95 manifesto’s precepts included sole use of 35mm, on location shooting and handheld camera use,  and, importantly, a lack of film credit for the director. However, although it sought to disavow the auteur as the harbinger of the work, its proponents, particularly Lars von Trier, were nonetheless strongly associated with the manifesto’s creative vision. His first film associated with the movement, The Idiots, based on a group of people who play act idiocy and instigate impulsive orgies, helped forge Trier’s reputation as a cinematic provocateur par excellence.

In the last twenty years, directors like Iranian Akira Kiarostami (with films such as Ten, set entirely within a woman’s car) and Taiwan’s Tsai Ming-Liang (with a film like Vive L’Amour, containing very longs sequences often totally devoid of dialogue) have continue to push the cinematic envelope.

The movements of cinematic art are, however, far from concise. Its influence has proven discursive, as art house cinema’s influence can be distinctly seen in the larger Hollywood productions.  The indomitable Quentin Tarantino named his production company, A Band Apart, after the youthful Godard film of the same name, and Tim Burton’s aesthetic can be clearly traced back to the German expressionism of the 1920s. If you want to see Burton’s roots, watch The Cabinet Of Dr Caligari.

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The Cabinet of Dr Caligari

 

At the risk of over-simplification, then, art house is less a set of distinct visual and narrative specifications than it is the result of creative desire. The desire to constantly re-form and re-create what the medium can be and do. Like many artistic forms, then, the periphery is always one step ahead of the centre; the art films often (but not always) precede in style the more commercial films that are influenced by them. But it’s far from a one-way street. Head back to the New Wave and you’ll see a set of art house directors heavily influenced by Alfred Hitchcock, a filmmaker who displayed with finesse a personal style that long outlasted the commercial considerations of the then film studios.

Five of my Favourites

F.W Murnau Nosferatu (1922)

Often cited as the first vampire film, Nosferatu was, in fact, preceded by several other films now out of print and lost to the cultural consciousness – and almost itself disappeared. F.W Murnau’s German Expressionist classic was almost destroyed when the courts ruled it an unauthorized adaptation of the Stoker novel.With its stark chiaroscuro lighting and oblique, gothic style, Nosferatu embodies the art film’s potential for visual creativity as a representation of psychological realism. In this case, the psychology is the fear of the seductive capabilities of the dreaded other/unknown.

 

Jean luc godard, Breathless (1960)

 

Godard’s most well regarded film by both critics and audiences, Breathless ranks in the British Film Institutes poll of films as the best work by a still living director. Despite its art film status, Breathless utilizes some of the themes and tropes of the Hollywood gangster and film noir genres. Michel Poiccard, played by Jean-Paul Belmondo, is on the run from the Parisian law after shooting a police officer.  Caddish, charming and whimsical, he refuses to leave the country for Italy, until Patricia, American Jean Seberg, leaves with him.The genre narrative is painted in a unique and creative style; Breathless is an example of jump cutting and fourth wall breaking interspersed with long and languorous conversations between the two title players. In this way, the film is a good example of the cross roads between art and entertainment cinema.

 

Ingmar Bergman, Persona (1966)

 

An ideal specimen of an art house picture if there ever was one, Persona is one of the most critically acclaimed of the Swedish directors oeuvre. David Bordwell specifies complex psychology as of major importance in art film and this Ingmar Bergman has it in bucket loads.A nurse and an actress come together in a beach house when the actress, Liv Ullman, relinquishes her power of speech. The nurse, Bibi Andersson, becomes enchanted by the muteness of the actress and, corrupted by the intensity of the circumstance, falling into a desperate desire for a contact that is unrequited. Identities merge whilst surrealist and horror imagery abounds. Persona is, then, as much a tale of the lady vampire, as it is of psychosomatic degradation, borne of the inevitable loneliness of being.

 

Abbas Kiarostami, Ten (2002)

 

Abbas Kiarostami’s Ten is set entirely within a young Iranian woman’s car in the capital Tehran,  and is predicated around a set of ten conversations she – Mania – played by Mania Akbar, has with her passengers. In it, Mania talks with a friend, her sister, an old woman and a street prostitute she gives a lift. The conversations often considering  the role of women in modern Iran. Her young, quite belligerent son also makes several inclusions in the film, and as the only male, it is arguably the case that Kiarostami is making a statement about the petulance and selfish self-aggrandisement of masculine society.

Even if not (and it is for the spectator to decide), a female focused film with a meandering, loose narrative and tightly interiorized setting goes against the American commercial grain, with its preference for exterior, male driven, action heavy and ‘resolvable’ narratives’.

 

Lars von Trier, The Idiots (1998)

 

A controversial remedy to more saccharine or simplistic cinemas, The Idiots is perhaps one of Lars von Trier’s most tendentious pictures. Seemingly splitting the critics down the middle, The Idiots deals in the performance of disability by a group of bohemians.

Trier’s film is both the tracing of its protagonist’s social discomfort and their sense of being on the borderline of society – as it is also a political manifesto arguing against the exclusive nature of Capitalism’s purported ‘meritocracy.’

My Favourite – ‘International’ Cinema

Originally Published in the now defunct Subtitled Online


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Persepolis

International film, or world cinema, is largely a sort of genre category utilized by film distributors and retailers in Britain to designate non-British, Australasian and, more specifically, American produce. The category is loaded with notions of otherness and exoticism, political, racial and sexual complexity and, in many senses, the highbrow. In effect… international cinema holds a firm place in the populist, collective consciousness as inaccessible, designed for the subtle eye of the critical spectator and not for mass consumption, or ‘entertainment’.

In truth, many world cinemas, like Hollywood, have their own brands of majority produce, designed to satiate the audience’s most straight forward leisure needs. Bollywood, in India, is a notable example, for its gargantuan output of romantic musicals and historical epics. China also has a long history of family dramas and, of course, its martial arts Wuxia pictures, and Egypt was termed the ‘Hollywood on the Nile’ for its large yield of tragic, often female centred melodramas. These films are not, in the main, what immediately springs to mind when one considers ‘international cinema’. Often less exported and translated for the English speaking audiences, much of these various national cinemas are created for, and consumed by, the home audience. In this sense, then, no cinema is ‘foreign’ or ‘world’ until it is transported or translated. And that counts for Hollywood, too.

With that in mind, this introduction is mainly concerned with summarizing a diversity of international pictures currently absorbed by the English speaking audience in, most specifically, Britain. What carries a film here from Africa, Asia, the Middle East or the rest of Europe is dependent primarily on the funding capabilities of that particular nation. It will probably come as no surprise that Western European countries such as France and Germany have much greater financial muscle that many African countries, where little or no money for production and distribution is available.  Aligned with that, exhibition at film festivals, such as Cannes and Sundance, is often imperative in getting a film to reach a wider, international audience and thus engage critical notice. However, combined with marketing and distribution costs, entering films into festivals is an expensive business. Finance is one of the primary reasons why most audiences will have seen more Hollywood pictures then French pictures, and even discerning audiences will have seen more French or Chinese than African or Latin American pictures.

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All About My Mother

Western and Northern European cinema is often considered the apotheosis of cinema as ‘art form’ due to the reputation of past masters ranging from Vittorio De Sica, Francois Truffaut, Ingmar Bergman, Federico Fellini and Andrei Tarkovsky, if one wanders as far as Russia. However, long after these cinema deaths, the legacy of the European masters continues with the camp and burlesque melodramas of Pedro Almodovar (All About My Mother, 1999), the often sexually bleak dramas of Lukas Moodysson (Lilya 4 Ever, 2002), the controversial experiments of Lars von Trier (The Idiots, 1998) and the psychological thrillers of Michael Haneke (Funny Games, 1997).

Veer to the Middle East and cinema production seems to be most heavily concentrated, contemporarily, in Iran. In the last two decades, the country has been responsible for a plethora of both male and female cinema authors, dealing often in the socio-political tensions of the age, to critical acclaim. Abbas Kiarostami, in particular, established a strong reputation with acclaimed pictures such as A Taste Of Cherry (1997) and Ten (2002). Aligned with this, a high percentage of female filmmakers’ projects have been exported. Samira Makhamalbaf, for example, has told the stories of Iranian and Afghani women in films like Apple and At Five In The Afternoon (2003). These socio-realist films are also complemented by films like the internationally successful Persepolis (2003) by Marjane Strapi, a darkly comic look at a woman coming of age during the Iranian revolution.

As mentioned, African films have struggled to find finance and, as such, much of its international head rearing has been intermittent. In the Northern country Tunisia, Moufida Tlatli,  achieved a hugely positive critical reception with Silences Of The Palace (2004). The film, about servant women prostituted in a Bey palace, demonstrated the relationship women have with nation, as representatives of nation. Travel further south to Senegal and you will find two of Africa’s most well renowned directors. Djibril Diop Mambety (Touki Bouki, 1973) and Ousmane Sembene (Borom Sarret, 1963) both dealt, in their differing ways, with the social traditions and tensions of Senegal, the hierarchies and sexualities of its people, and the corruptions of government.

Into East Asian and an eclectic diversity of film practice. Park Chan-wook has cultivated an aura of brutal creativity with the martial artistic The Vengeance Trilogy (2002-2005) and the vampiric Thirst (2009). Much less brutal, Thailand’s Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s films are slow and idiosyncratic, using themes of nature, sexuality and spirituality, in pictures such as Blissfully Yours (2002) and Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (2010). In Taiwan, Tsai Ming-liang has been lauded for his brave employment of slowness and sparse dialogue in Vive l’Amour (1994) and What Time is It There? (2001).

Some Latin American works, in Mexico in particular, have amassed large, global audiences. Alejandro González Iñárritu gained popularity with, what could be called, ‘gritty’ and complex narratives, in Amores Perros (2000) and 21 Grams (2003). After these films, Babel (2006) completed what has become known as his ‘Death Trilogy’ – a film that incurred Academy Award success and belongs in the pantheon of global narratives, telling its story in Japan, Morocco, Mexico and the USA. Outside of Mexico, Fernando Meirelles drew British attention to the early mortality of the gangsters of the Brazilian favelas in the hugely acclaimed, MTV style film  City Of God (2002).

What is evidenced from this brief compendium is the English speaking audience’s proclivity for International films with political narratives. The inequities between men and women, between rich and poor and, specifically in Tsai Ming-liang’s films, between heterosexual and homosexual, and the anxieties that arise as a result, are common across the films mentioned. However, if one were to watch all these films, what would also be evidenced are the vast differences in the aesthetic and narrative qualities across, and within, nations. There is a heterogeneous miscellany evidenced between East Asian brutality or slowness, Senegalese casual performance, Iranian social realism and Latin American MTV culture creativity.

So, as suggested, International or world cinema is not a coherent category, but exists in terms of its opposition to the national product, in the first sense, and the commercial product, in the second. Once they manage to surpass the financial difficulties, in particularly in the instances of the developing nations, their ability to capture an audience’s attention comes from their artistic, cinematic handling of human difficulties that are both specific to nation, as they are also, transcendental across place and time. The troubles of women in Tehran, recall the upheavals of the Western feminist revolutions, and the poverties of the urban classes of Brazil echo the kitchen sink realism of 1960s British cinemas, and the trials and traumas of the working classes detailed therein.

 

Five of my Favourites

Pedro Almodovar, All About My Mother (1999)

In many ways, the Spanish auteur’s most highly considered film, All About My Mother is often credited with being a goal post in Pedro Almodovar’s creative maturation. The film retains the kitsch camp of his earlier works, but extends itself more fully in to the melodramatic.In a sense the film is not simply all about the mother, but all about the feminine and the performative nature of contemporary women-hood in Spain.

 

Marjane Strapi, Persepolis (2007)

 

A modern animation classic if there ever was one, Marjane Strapi’s adaptation of her own autobiographical graphic novel helped translate the dilemmas and tensions of the Iranian Revolution to the wider audience.Helped along with the vocal talents of legendary French actor Catherine Deneuve and her daughter Chiara Mastroianni, Persepolis looks at the growth of girl torn between her country’s conservative values, and the more liberal values of her parents.

 

Moufida Tlatli, Silences Of The Palace (1994)

 

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Moufida Tlatli’s film, a rare success for the North African country, traverses the decade before and after colonial Tunisia.Young Alia (Hend Sabri) is the daughter of a servant in a Bey palace. Unable to receive any formal education, and watching her mother, Khedija (Amel Hedhili), having to submit to servitude and sexual exploitation, the future for Alia looks bleak. However, in this reflective film, there is an aura of optimism for the emancipation for, not just women, but women as emblems of the Tunisian nation.

 

Tsai Ming-Liang, The Wayward Cloud (2005)

 

Image result for wayward cloudCherry picked out from the Taiwanese director’s oeuvre to demonstrate the true eclecticism of foreign pictures, this tale of love in the pornographic age has the capability to shock (possibly rather, surprise) even the most blasé cinema spectator.Set amidst some outré musical numbers and set pieces, often involving watermelons, Tsai Ming-liang’s exercises his common themes of sexual, romantic and familial repression.

 

Fernando Meirelles, City Of God(2002)

 

A good starting point for anyone unfamiliar with non-Hollywood produce, this Brazilian film from Fernando Meirelles harnesses the visual techniques of the music video – in a similar style to Quentin Tarantino or Guy Ritchie – to tell its tale of corruption and violence in the Brazilian slums.When other young men around him are turning to cocaine dealing and gun toting, Rocket (Alexandre Rodrigues) has dreams of becoming a photographer to make his escape from poverty and early death.

Artless Whores

In Arles, in the late 19th century, a 37 year old artiste tragique, for one reason or another, decided to slice off his own ear (apparently now it is the whole ear, and not simply the lobe) and took it to a House of Tolerance to give to a woman, named Rachel. Or Gaby. Who may have been a prostitute, or a brothel cleaner, we don’t know for sure.

The story poses questions for many. But is the most important question, what is the nature of her lost identity (who was she? where was she from? what was she like and so on), or is it, why it is that Van Gogh felt the need to conduct such an act, post self violence, irrespective of it?

And also, why would it be that because he was a visionary artist of posthumous acclaim, that  his bizarre reasoning should be any more obscure or interesting or developed than any other male who, in derangement and mental folly, imparted an aggression or disturbance upon a woman? Yes the mutilation was of himself, but she was to be the recipient of it, and in the long winded cultural imagination, the cause. Do we imagine the artist to be some form of modernist disciple of God – being beyond normal human considerations – or some salient, clear and hyper-truthful voice for men everywhere?

Either way, this man was a great artist, no doubt. But he was also someone who  believed that women were utilities – not possible members of his artistic brethren – and his sexuality seemed to consist of ‘screwing’ prostitutes as perfunctorily as one would drink coffee or take a crap. The only relationships he had, seemed to be temporary engagements with destitute women, such as the prostitute Sien (who later committed suicide) who was pregnant when he mused her in one of his lesser known works, Sorrow.

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Sorrow, Van Gogh

He said of her: “I knew from the outset that her character is a ruined character, but I had hopes of her finding her feet and now, precisely when I don’t see her any more and think about the things I saw in her, I increasingly come to realize that she was already too far gone to find her feet.”

Back to the torn ear.

Why should we romanticise it all so, if it is also true that we would otherwise – to a man of no acclaim-  opt instead to post his face in a mugshot, put him into social care and never mention the whole sorry incident again? The story of the woman who would have been handed his bloodied appendage would have been forgotten to most but her, irrespective. As is the case the world over. It never obtains a more rounded analysis, especially if she is nothing but a lowly worker, a floor scrubber confined to her own, grey, muted life in history; or a prostitute  given some vague, oil painted variance. Smudged face, wanton grin, mucky skirts. Tired, tired, tired.

Indeed, even in such notable tales, she is mostly forgotten, apart from as a stock figure; the ‘woman’ in the story of a Man further buoyed by social or artistic currency, not unlike the brutalised victim of the footballer, who no longer has the ability to wear her own name. Not that, really, she ever did. Rachel, Gaby… does it matter?

To my mind, the depiction of the thwarted artist, who cannot seem to love, as did Van Gogh, or who could ‘love’ too readily, aggressively and transiently, as Gauguin, has long since lost its romance. The romance that has been rhapsodized for many years within my own mind, perhaps due to the lulling and quixotic notion of a cafés Paris (“always in the rain!”) or the casual sensuality of a colourful, soil rich and wine soaked Provence.

Man has always been given  historical prominence; he has paintings of himself, his books, his written histories, his dialect and moral philosophies. But women are often only thick splodges on the canvas, detailing the ‘atmosphere’ in the room. Work horses, beasts of burden and of course, fuck holes, whose number and availability are used as signifiers of the Man’s, the artist’s, the bohemian’s, the hippy’s rejection of conservative, old male ‘values’. It is notable then, that feminists who wish to reject being only the paint blot or the fuck hole in the story should be aligned with conservatism (prude!puritan!) when we are no more properly represented in their moral stories either.

But one great difference between male conservatives and male artists, is that the latter often (choose) to believe that nothing exists between them and prostitutes (ergo women).  They are socially tantamount. Said by Charles Baudelaire, “What is art? Prostitution.”

Of course!

The daily grind of soused, hairy, ugly, old men finding temporary residence for their cocks in your body is so like the daily grind of an artist, musing over paint, words, music. What a trial! And more so, it is the consumptive exercise that produces nothing and that is to be done again and again without creation, or artifact to be left in its wake. And when a prostitute tries to make her life into an art – as does the male who hasn’t had her trials – her stories are often tawdry and forgettable and told too many times in much the same fashion, as her position remains inevitable. She is a prostitute foremost (and only), he an artist foremost and a ‘lover’ second. She is confined to his sexuality, whether she tells the story or not, and if he has the luxury and freedom to tell his truth in honesty – as he sees it- then he may as well.

Indeed the imaginative possibilities of contemporary prostitution in the culture are inherently uninspiring. Today, we have blogs and books  in innumerable amounts, of prostitutes pilfering themselves, their pages decorated with digital imagery of their bodies in their best position and their eyes come hither. But as each day passes, their selves move further and further away from these flat depictions, if they ever really said or demonstrated anything real or perceptive in the first place.
Still here, He, the artist, trumps her with his freedoms, with Lautrec’s paintings of prostitutes overcome by exhaustion being more truthful to the fact of a  La Belle Époque’s, Parisian prostitute’s life ( incidentally, one lived under a legalised brothel system) than any fruity tales of courtesans on high.

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Alone, Lautrec

Even amidst the purported utopia of Signac’s In the Time of Harmony, you will notice men, mostly,  engage in leisure, reading, painting, playing games, swimming and one man picking a single fruit for himself.  On the other hand, there is a woman feeding a child, others attending to laundry and one woman labouring to pick for fruit for others. Oh, and one being romanced with a  flower. There is an honesty here too, to the male ‘anarchist’s’ mind; whatever the social circumstances, women are background labourers, at best well admired dogs.  The revolution is not for us, ladies. The best we can come up with is allowing a further segregation of women into prostitution via a return to the ‘halcyon days’ of state controlled brothels. And we will call it beauty, sexuality, progress. But of course not art.

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In the Time of Harmony, Signac

Or indeed these tales of happy hookers in pink paperbacks, are not as truthful, ultimately, as of Gauguin’s own depictions of his idea of women, or indeed, his ideal. His unfettered perspective. In Spirit of the Dead Watching, he imagined Tehamana, to be othered, sexualised, vulnerable and afraid. All ready exoticism. Just as he liked it?

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Spirit of the Dead Watching, Gaughin

The art is an effort to give it grace, whereas the punter’s forums of today express their desire for selfish gratification and violence openly and without flair. It would be preferable and useful to hear their visceral, inartistic tales and compare them to the glamourised self imagery of the prostitutes or their pimps, but we seem too jaded to make such comparisons.  Or indeed, we don’t like the conclusions.
Today, any attempts at self depiction by prostitutes will be inherently gagged by the nature of the consumptive, gendered transaction. No one wants a sorry, even nuanced tale, not least the punters themselves . No-one wants prostitutes to depict themselves in context, or with reflection. No-one wants them to be wicked other than in the rather cheesecake play-game wickedness that manifests itself in light up, devil horns or holy underpants. No-one wants them to be aggressively intelligent, at most ‘bright’. And they only are permitted to be disagreeable to other women, and even then, they must watch their step lest they seem hopelessly and greenly obsessed.

Yes the artist, if successful, gets paid, but it is understood that if they  are to be good at it, their own artistic, spiritual or intellectual  concerns are foremost. They gain their audience because of this  very lofty individualism. The one subsisting on prostitution is always muzzled and thus, constrained to speak kindly of it, for as long as she is dependent. Only women outside of prostitution or those who have exited can operate with theoretical freedom, but the former dare not speak, and the latter often preference to leave the whole, sorry mess behind them. And if they do, as art and thought is still gunned through a masculinist conceptualising, their dangerousness as social commentators must be immunised by relegating them to the sentimental, foolish, parochial and petty minded.

Is it not interesting then, that the men whose lives have been considered the most free, should have been so interested in the women’s lives who were the least?

Even in lowlife Charles Bukowski’s tales of skid row, it is understood that the women and prostitutes he encountered could never have his fame, as the bruising they suffered from a life of hardship amounted to a near annihilation. It was not a barrier for him, his drinking, his coarseness, his wounded features.

We did have Diane Arbus, Nan Goldin and later Corinne Day (not prostitutes but women with addictions in this latter case) artists who used photography to slice into the vagaries of poor women’s (and other disenfranchised people’s) narcotic, urban lives. But we couldn’t stand the hard truth of these women’s perspectives for too long. The internet came along and now women are either digitalised goddesses, or utterly foxed beyond humanity by sexualised violence, pushed for the enjoyment of a global male community, increasingly gagging and vampirically thirsty.

As Greer said at the infamous Town Bloody Hall debate,
“And so I turned later to the function of women vis-à-vis art as we know it, and I found that it fell into two parts, that we were either low sloppy creatures or menials or we were goddesses. Or worst of all we were meant to be both, which meant that we broke our hearts trying to keep our aprons clean.”

Now many women, in the West, have money and a room of their own, and yet so much of our culture is  dependent on an impossible balance of physical perfection and sexual and social willingness or ‘hedonism’. Perhaps that is why Kate Moss transcended the public vitriol after her cocaine taking, to remain a make-up model, and the mockery of Amy Winehouse was played out sadistically and unrelentingly over the track of her final years. Moss managed to maintain the sheen of her youth. Winehouse, did not.

And where our expressions do exist, in pop music predominately, whatever maverick ‘fuck yous’ or ‘sock its to the patriarchy’ we express, must be carefully orchestrated and, ultimately, clean. You will notice that none of the most vocal proponents of the sex industry as -‘a great, fat, fabulous, feminist affair’ – rarely post pictures to their Twitter pages or their blogs of them being fucked, ridden, driven, and rendered in a fog and sweat of hard limbs and male excretions. No it is coquettish pictures in lace, or sharp shoulder business suits giving the camera what for. They curse ‘respectable’ society and yet they play its game.

There is no art in any of this, no risk. (Some) prostitutes have found their feet in politics as they have been able to adopt a vernacular that was helpfully created for them in previous times by other rights movements. But they cannot reproduce their histories in art because to do so would mean to give up the ghosts of their empowerment rhetoric. When ‘sex work’ art does occur it is often too attached to the ‘sex work’ politics or too performative to be of note. Occasionally it will be more a form of lazy social experiment such as the ‘life drawing classes’ wherein prostitutes performed for charcoal bearing voyeurs.  But it is hardly a re-imagination of the prostitute as the muse for the prurient. That paradigm seems inescapable.

And if prostitutes really are a discernible category, as an ethnicity or sexuality, one would imagine someone, somewhere would seek to deal with this deficit? Surely every demographic or vaguely coherent mass of peoples needs a cultural output, not simply a commercial or political one? But they cannot, because ultimately a prostitute is more often than not a woman made unfortunate by the axis between socio-cultural or socio-economic inequality and her former brutalisations… but key, and unlike others in similar situations…her  job it is to appeal to men’s need to fortify their power and fulfill their, often sadistic gratifications, in her every public expression whilst she is still in  their service. Even the downtrodden cleaner, or overworked midwife, underpaid waitress, can publicly express their stress and distaste, as no-one expects them to always love their work.
And in that fundamental dishonesty, there can be no art.