Tag Archives: Catherine Deveny

Erotic Fan Fiction Clementine Ford and Catherine Deveny by Canbebitter

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I was sitting round a table at Albert Food and Wine with Clementine Ford, Stella Young, Emilie Zoey Baker and my boyfriend last night lsitening to Benjamin Law do a live reading of the Erotic Fan Fiction he had just done involving Corey Bernadi and a large dog at the Wheeler Centre.

Clem and I then talked about the Erotic Fan Fiction we had read at the previous event with Andrew Denton and Declan Greene.  (Mine involved Tony Abbott, Cardinal Geroge Pell, Gina Rinehart and a dildo in the shape of Rose Hancock).

At that VERY moment a fan had sent both Clem and I an email with an Erotic Fan Fiction she had written about us!

I thought it was fabulous and Canbebitter generously allowed me to post it.  Enjoy….

525841_10151824944290453_924813602_n 2Clementine Ford rolled her head back and moaned loudly.

“Gnnnnnnaarrghhhhgggggghhhh. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

She looked down between her creamy thighs and studied Catherine Deveny’s dark wavy mane as it bobbed up and down behind her own elegantly groomed pubic hair. How did this happen?!, Clementine wondered as she took another sip of red wine out of a Brunswick-issue jam jar. Catherine’s perfectly pink tongue flicked her clitoris again. Oh, who the hell cares, Ms Ford revised, as orgasmic waves crashed over her.

It had actually started out, as these things often do for Northside feminist writers, on Twitter. A little calling out sexism here, a few #qanda tweets there, and before they knew it, Clementine Ford and Catherine Deveny had cultivated Twitter followings comprising most of the feminists (and their trolls) in Melbourne. Naturally, they’d SlutWalked together, Reclaimed the Night and eventually developed a friendship offline. In June 2012, they were each delighted to find that they were both asked to read at the same Erotic Fan Fiction event at the Wheeler Centre. In July 2012, Clementine had called Catherine in a panic.

“Dev! Erotic Fan Fiction is on tomorrow and I haven’t written anything yet.”

“Oh Clem, this is so typically you. As soon as I heard, I got home and wrote this amazing piece about Tony Abbott and George Pell. And Andrew Bolt. And Gina Rinehart.”

“And that is so typically you. But I don’t have time for your gloating. What am I going to do?”

“You’re going to have a glass of wine, calm the fuck down, and write something filthy. It’s not hard.” To Clementine, Dev sounded as if she’d already had a glass or two herself. The advice wasn’t helpful.

“I don’t think I can do it. I’m freaking out, Catherine.”

“How about I come over and we can do it together? Maybe if you had some help, you’d feel more confident. You’re so adorable when you panic.”

Clementine knew that even just the company of the older woman would steel her nerves. “Thank you,” she whimpered into the phone.

“I’ll cycle over. See you in five,” Catherine replied.

Clementine opened the door to a slightly flushed Dev, dressed in a deep green dress, with a low cut scoop neck. She must have gotten dressed in a hurry, because she wasn’t wearing a bra, and Clementine could see every curve of her bountiful breasts. She’d skipped stockings too. Clementine looked down at her own attire. She was wearing a cream lace vintage nightgown. Her blue Bonds briefs were clearly visible under the flimsy material, but she figured Dev would forgive the oversight.

“What you need, is some inspiration,” Catherine said in her typically forthright manner. She went into the kitchen and poured out two very large jam jars of red wine, and two shots of tequila.

“I know,” Clem agreed. “I’ve been trawling the news and skimming children’s books, but nothing is coming to me. I even read some Literotica, but then I got distracted, and you know…” She gestured at her crotch. “I wasn’t very productive. Who are those for?”

“The wine is for the both of us, the tequila is just for you,” Catherine replied, her eyes glinting cheekily. Clementine opened her mouth, but Dev continued. “Don’t argue, just slam it back.”

Clementine did so. Oh god, she was in her 30s and far too old to be shotting tequila. She woozily stood back from the bench to find Catherine’s hands between her thighs.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?” she spat out.

Catherine looked sheepish, but kept her hand on Clementine’s inner thigh. “I just wanted to check how distracted you’d been from Literotica. And I wondered if maybe I’d be better at inspiring you?” she added hopefully.

The tequila going to her head, Clementine grabbed Dev’s hand and plunged it inside her briefs. Her moat had suddenly become flooded, and she wanted more than anything for Catherine to know that she was the cause of it. With her free hand, she grabbed a jar of wine and took another gulp.

“Kiss me.” Catherine did so, and pushed Clementine against the bench. Dev’s stiff nipples pushed through the green fabric and brushed against Ford’s. Clementine felt Catherine’s fingers search deeper into her sex, the heel of her hand expertly massaging her clit.

“Oh God,” Clementine offered involuntarily.

“There’ll be no talk of God here,” Catherine snapped, ever the atheist. “I’m going to punish you for that.” She pushed Clementine’s head to her unstockinged mound.

Instinctively, Clementine knew what was expected of her. She peeled away Catherine’s black French briefs and ran her tongue over her hot slit. Reaching up one hand to grasp Dev’s famous bosom, she used her other hand to get a firm hold of her ample, fleshy arse. She licked blindly, feeling for Dev’s pleasure button with her tongue. A few guttural sounds told Clementine she had found the right place. Licking faster and faster, Clementine felt her own briefs get wetter and wetter. She removed her hand from Catherine’s behind and plunged them deep into Dev’s slippery cave. Clem knew there’d be no attention for her until Catherine was satisfied.

The experienced older woman came quickly and heavily, releasing delicious juices into Clementine’s willing mouth. The younger woman swilled some more wine, removed her nightgown and Bonds, and sat down on her favourite chair.

“Now me.”

Catherine took her place at the foot of the chair, posed as if in prayer. While she didn’t care for the church, the cult of pussy was something she could get behind.

“You’re soaking,” she murmured. Catherine inserted an exploratory index finger into her crevice, feeling for Clementine’s raised G-spot.

Clementine breathed in sharply as Catherine found it. She sipped at her wine and felt two more fingers enter her. She ran her hands over her own torso, taking in her feminine curves, eventually resting on her swollen breasts. Clementine tugged gently at the stiff nubs of her nipples, heightening the sensation. She rolled her head back.

Ms Ford then felt Catherine apply her tongue to the place she needed her most. Combined with the now methodical in-and-out motion of Dev’s long fingers, Clementine began to feel pleasure unlike anything her boyfriend or faithful vibrator had ever been able to give her. She spread her legs further, pressing her warm vulva hard up against Catherine’s enthusiastic face.

Clementine’s breath got hot and heavy. Catherine continued to flick her tongue expertly, and faster now. Her fingers slipped in and out easily, and at speed. While focusing intently on the wavy hair in front of her, Ford lost all control and reason.

As the climax tingled through Clementine’s body, she brought Catherine’s head to meet hers and kissed her, tasting her own meaty sex on her lips. “Stay with me,” she whispered, as post-coital exhaustion set in.

Hungover, with red wine stained lips, Clementine awoke the next day to find Catherine gone. “Shit, it’s 3pm,” she said to no one. She quickly rushed off some erotic fiction, substituting the characters of Jesus and Satan for Clementine and the devilish Dev. Her pussy pulsated with delight as she committed the previous night’s depravity to paper.

Suddenly it was 7pm. Clementine Ford cycled madly to the Wheeler Centre, all the while worrying what Catherine would think of her story. Eddie Sharpe introduced her, and Clementine stepped up to the podium. It was her moment of truth, and the way she saw it, there was only three ways the reading could go. Badly, with Catherine never speaking to her, let alone tweeting at her, again; mediocre, with Dev tweeting at her but never touching her again; or very well, with the two of them getting a room straight after. Clutching at her throat, Clementine felt her own erect nipple graze her arm. She nervously began reading.

As she returned from the lectern to her seat, Clementine glanced back to see Dev with a wicked look in her eyes, running a pink tongue around the edge of her crimson lips. The moistening in Clementine’s crotch told her she’d be seeing that tongue again very soon…

 

Want more?  Come see Clem, Dev and Nelly Thomas LIVE Sunday November 4th 3pm Bella Union Bar. And this is also a DO NOT MISS. Tuesday October 9th Too Much Information. I went last week and was GOBSMACKED!!!

 

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Leadbeater’s Possum. YOU. ME. CARPARK. NOW! From Melbourne Zoo Debate

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Last night I did a Comedy Debate to celebrate the 150th birthday of Melbourne Zoo 

To be honest I wasn’t thrilled to get the Leadbeater’s Possum.

I thought to myself,  “How the hell is Melbourne’s noisiest atheist going to convince a bunch of inner city, latte drinking, Monthly reading, sarong wearing, ’let’s go out to a debate on a Wednesday night for a bit of culture’ audience to vote for a rat that eats their passionfruit, pees on their wisteria and makes sexy noises in their roof when they are trying to sleep to get a spot on some imaginary arc?”

At least I could comfort myself by with the knowledge at least I didn’t get the Baw Baw frog. Which is what Rusty Berther did. Now he’s not just scared and weird but spewing heaps.

In the spirit of full disclosure I must tell you I am related to such a marsupial. I have a possum cousin. Well his real name is Glenn but we call him Possum because he eats roots and leaves. He’s not a Leadbeater’s possum. More a panel beater’s possum.

So why should the Leadbeater’s possum get a spot on the arc?

Look I could say,

1. The Leadbeater’s possums’ extinction is so inevitable the top scientific authority on the endangered marsupial David Lindenmayer recently quit from a team trying to save it, in protest over forestry policies that will guarantee the animal’s extinction.

2. The Leadbeater’s possum is so endangered there are only 100 of them left. You know Ted Baillieu?  Close the Tafes, open more jails, I hate poor people Ted Baillieu? Not only does Ted Baillieu hate poor people, but he also clearly hates Leadbeater’s possums by allowing the logging of Toolangi state forest, the last remaining habitat of the Leadbeater’s possum.

3. They also go by the common name of fairy possum. ‘Marriage is a mistake everyone has the right to make’ AM I RIGHT?

4. The Leadbeater’s possum is Victoria’s animal emblem.

Which are all adequate reasons why this little creature should be saved a spot on the arc. But the Leadbeater’s possum should not only get a spot on the arc but the first spot.

Why?

The possum lives in a matriarchal society.

The male and female bond after they have first given each other a 69.

They are highly energetic, aggressive, territorial and constantly fight with their neighbors.

They sleep for six months a year and when they wake they are incredibly promiscuous, between punch-ups and eating they have children as early as possible.

The Leadbeater’s Possum is the animal equivalent of the Collingwood Supporter.

That’s right. The unfairly maligned, badly treated butt of all Victorian jokes.  I am not a Collingwood supporter but not only do my siblings go for the Pies, so too does my partner making me a sexually transmitted Collingwood supporter.

The Leadbeater’s Possum will chase humans away if they come near their territory. They have no concept of fear. That’s right. NO FEAR.

Collingwood Supporters have No Fear Stickers on their cars.

Leadbeater’s Possums live on Mountain Ash, Alpine Ash and Shining Gum.

Collingwood Supporters also live on fags and chewies.

Like Collingwood supporters, the Leadbeater’s natural enemies are Hawks, Cats, Eagles, and Bulldogs.

The senior female  is the main defender: she is more active in expelling outsiders, and attacks her daughters when they reach sexual maturity, forcing them to disperse earlier than male children. Which proves Kath Pettingill and Judy Moran are both Collingwood Supporters.

The Leadbeater’s Possum is not only so endangered it’s probably lost half it’s population since tonight’s debate began it represents all oppressed minorities brave enough to live a sexy, passionate, vibrant life despite ‘social convention’ or in the case of Collingwood supporters ‘intervention orders’.

Look, I can’t force you to give the Leadbeater’s Possum a place on the arc. But what I will say is if they do get left behind don’t blame me if Chopper Read rocks up to your joint. Not only does he barrack for Collingwood but he really likes Leadbeaters possums. Or perhaps he’s just wants to stay in their good books.

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Trolls. Don’t fertilize hate. Give no oxygen to trolls.

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Take the power back and block hate followers.

I REMEMBER when I was about 14 slagging off some poor girl with my classmates. I thought how horrible what we were doing was and how glad I was it wasn’t me being bitched about. I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least she didn’t know.

I then had the sudden realisation that if we slagged this girl off behind her back and she didn’t know, perhaps others slagged me off behind my back and I didn’t know.

My heart sank. I then pondered whether, if people were going the hack on me on the quiet, I would want to know. No, I thought, I wouldn’t.

CLICK TO READ MORE  another bit on trolls you may dig…
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Asylum Seekers. Advance Australia Unfair ABC The Drum

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Whether Peter Reith and the Howard government did actually ‘stop the boats’ is contestable.

That the policy to ‘stop the boats’ caused misery, loss of life, loss of face, corroded our national reputation irreversibly, made the international community think of Australia as a bunch of redneck racists, reneged on our international obligation as signatories to the UN Refugee Convention and poisoned the welcoming and compassionate heart of Australia is, in my opinion, undeniable. And unforgiveable.

(LATE EDIT! I forgot the term ‘self-selection’ ‘country shopping’ and ‘luxury packs’)

 

CLICK HERE TO READ MORE

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Freedom of speech. Unabridged speech from Intelligence Squared Debate 8 May 2012

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Topic: Freedom Of Speech Is Over-Rated. I spoke for the affirmative.

Watch here (with Julian Burnside)

Not only is freedom of speech overrated the claim we actually have freedom of speech, as opposed to a perception of freedom of speech, is not only ludicrous but deeply offensive to those with the inability to exercise freedom of speech. Which is most of us.

The threat of negative consequences, be they legal, economic, social or emotional compounded by the oppression of the illusion of the enshrined right to free speech (or in the case of Australia the implied right to free speech) makes freedom of speech for all a perception, not a reality.

Select people have the right to say some things some of the time without the threat of negative consequences.

Look in the mirror. If you are a rich, white, middle aged, middle class straight or straight acting god fearing or pretending man with disproportionate access to power, control, decision-making, leisure and money you are almost certain to be one of these select people. 

If you are a woman, gay, atheist, an activist for disability rights, action on climate change, the rights of asylum seekers you can look forward to a life of to be undermined with micro aggression (radical, militant, loony, fundermentalsist, extreme)  at best and being gagged at worst.

Let me illustrate:

Men have opinions. Women are opinionated.

Men speak. Women are outspoken.

Men are passionate. Women are strident.

Men have mouths. Women are mouthy.

How could we discuss freedom of speech without mentioning the Leadership Conference of Women Religious

The LCWR is the largest organization of nuns in the United States.

The Vatican recently found the nuns’ organization had ”radical feminist tendencies “ and has appointed an Archbishop to the get the nuns to heel.

The Vatican did an inquiry into the LCWR and found the nuns spent too much time supporting programs like homeless and healthcare and had not taken a strong enough stance against women’s ordination, gay marriage, abortion and contraception.

A spokesperson for the Catholic Church said “Occasional public statements by the LCWR disagree with or challenge positions taken by the bishops, who are the church’s authentic teachers of faith and morals”

Some people can say some things some of the time.

Still in the U.S., The New York City Department of Education is currently seeking to have words they deem upsetting removed from tests in schools

“Fearing that certain words and topics can make students feel unpleasant, officials are requesting 50 or so words be removed from tests.”

One of the words is dinosaur.

The word “dinosaur” made the hit list because dinosaurs suggest evolution which may offend creationists.

Halloween- because it suggests paganism;

 Birthday- because birthdays aren’t celebrated by Jehovah’s Witnesses.

Also banned “divorce” and “disease,” because kids taking tests may have relatives who split from spouses or are ill.’

Other words; celebrities, loss of employment and In-depth discussions of sports that require prior knowledge. Try that in Melbourne.

Let’s talk blasphemy.

There are people who equate “freedom of speech” with “immunity from criticism.”

The United Nations has accepted several non-binding resolutions condemning “defamation of religion.” Despite the fact that blasphemy is a victimless crime.  And that offence is a healthy byproduct of free speech.

More damage is caused taking offence than giving it. And no one has the right not to be offended. Even Cardinal George Pell.

Let’s take Andrew Bolt. He’s a rather opinionated, outspoken, strident and mouthy columnist for a Melbourne tabloid who lost a racial discrimination case last year.

Bolt lamented his gagging the following day on the front page of Australia’s highest circulating newspaper in a lengthy piece and continued to rail against his silencing on his radio and his television show that week. And continues to. 

The judgement by Justice Mordecai Bromberg included this paragraph.

 ”Language of that kind has a heightened capacity to convey implications beyond the literal meaning of the words utilized. It is language which invites the reader to not only read the lines, but to also read between the lines.” 

At the time the Institute of Public Affairs took out a full page ad in the Australian newspaper, claiming Australia’s freedom of speech was under threat.

They even set up a website  www.supportbolt.com/

The IPA was very fast to support freedom of speech when it came to someone who was a mouthpiece for their agenda. I am yet to see them support free speech when it comes to someone they disagree with. Perhaps someone questioning who they are funded by.

Unlike the IPA I support free speech. Even when I don’t like what is being said.

Anzac Day is a perfect example of how some people are allowed to say some things some of the time.

In Australia you are only allowed to speak about Anzac Day

  1. if your grandfather fought in the war,
  2.  if you do not question the myths that hijack ‘the origin of our national spirit’

On Anzac Day 2010 I sent out a dozen tweets raising the question of the authenticity of the myths, manipulating of the facts and the political opportunism of ANZAC DAY.

At the time I was writing a weekly column for The Age. I was told by my editor I was not allowed to write about Anzac Day because it would be old news by the time the column came out. On the day I wrote a column about Olivia Newton John on the back page. On the opinion page of the same paper  on the same day a man wrote a column not just about Anzac day but about my Anzac day tweets.

Free speech? For some. Not all. 

In Australian the illusion of free speech is staggering.

Take our defamation laws.

In theory, the objective of defamation laws is to balance protection of individual reputation with freedom of expression. In practice, defamation laws are frequently used as a means of gagging people and halting public discourse. A threat of (costly) defamation proceedings, whether or the claim is likely to be upheld by a court, is often used to silence criticism not only by a particular person or group but also as a threat to others.

We may be equal in the eyes of the law. But we are not equal in the eyes of the banks.

But what about laggers?  We’ve all seen Prisoner. We all know what happens to laggers? They get their hands put in the press.

Whistleblowers, squealers, leakers and laggers are considered the lowest of the low in Australia.

Despite a 2007 Federal Government pledge of reforms to restore trust and integrity in government, more than 500 secrecy clauses, which effectively criminalize the release of government information, remain in place. 

Which leads us to Julian Assange. 

Our Prime Minister Julia Gillard copped a bucket load within her own party for failing to support Assange after calling Wikileaks “an illegal act” and suggesting that Assange’s Australian passport should be cancelled.

Hundreds of lawyers, academics and journalists came forward in his support, with the Attorney-General, unable to explain how Assange had broken Australian law.

Wikileaks was and still is widely criticized in the media for doing exactly what the Fairfax and Murdoch press do EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Jemima Khan, who provided surety to Julian Assange at his London hearing, “The best justification governments can find to shut down information is that lives are at risk. In fact, lives have been at risk as a result of the silences and lies revealed in these leaks.” 

There are middle aged middle class rich white men like Kyle Sandilands, Jason Akermanis, Sam Newman, Andrew Bolt or Steve Price who suffer freedom of too much speech. 

But how free do the rich, white, middle aged, middle class straight or straight acting god fearing or pretending men feel to speak. 

How free do they feel to say “I’m scared”, “I’m gay”, “I’m an atheist” “I hate my job” “I feel like a corporate maggot” “I think I’m an alcoholic” or “I may be suffering depression”?

Freedom of speech for all is a brilliant concept. But that’s all it is. A perception. And an over rated one at that. 

There is no right to see, hear, smell or a right to grow hair. We take that as a given. 

The mere fact that there’s even the term ‘the right to free speech” proves unequivocally that all we have is an illusion of freedom of speech for all.

There are self appointed bodies that issue it, define the parameters and retract it to suit their objectives.

To be given the permission indicates that freedom of speech is not a born right.

And may I suggest that the illusion of freedom of speech is a little like cheese to mice, to flush out the dissenters so they can be punished, silenced and used as human piñatas in order to limit speech with the method ‘Kill one scare a thousand.’

See whole debate here.

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My ten point response to offensorati trolls

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1. Just because you’re offended doesn’t mean you’re right.016 Unknown-1

2. I’ve had cancer. It’s not all bad, you get free biscuits.

3. My nana died of arse cancer and I have a high chance of contracting it. Not just because of our genetic predisposition but because I have enjoyed a lot of anal sex with uncircumsised men.

4a. I’m a comedian.

4b. I’m me.

5. More damage is caused by taking offence than giving it.

6. “It’s a comedian’s job to know where the line is and cross it”- George Carlin. So a couple of people are offended by one of my tweets? I’m offended by Packed to The Rafters and the gender balance on the ABC. You don’t see me calling the wahmbulance.

7.  Who hasn’t used colourful language to describe someone they think is Satan?

8. Who cares? It’s just words. And I do not have the power to give a person arse cancer through a tweet. Yet.

9.’I hope you get arse cancer’ is a traditional Irish greeting. “Tá súil agam go bhfaighidh tú ailse asal” is often exclaimed as a child is baptised or as a coffin is lowered into the ground.

10.  You bored, envious, petty, panty-elasticated wowsers, haters, hypocrites and prudes. No one cares except you and your sad tragic mates in the relevance deprivation cess pool. Go fuck yourselves. Love Dev xxxx

P.S. You may like this too and this is another bit on trolls I wrote.

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At this time of year, we edit out the dysfunction in our lives. On Richard Billingham

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IF YOU’RE reading this, it means that you’ve survived Christmas Day and not been stabbed by one of your relatives, nor are you in custody for finally losing it and going the thump on Uncle Ron. From all of us here at Dysfunctional Family Central, congratulations for not going a member of your family with the good pair of scissors yesterday; God knows you wanted to.

People are going to write in accusing me of making light of domestic violence and informing me that this time of year is particularly stressful. I’m deadly serious. I know this time of year is a hot spot. Again, it’s a case of not being surprised that it happens, but being stunned that it doesn’t happen more often. Anyway, well done. Pat yourself on the back and pour yourself another glass of restraint.

It’s Boxing Day, one of the weirdest yet most comforting days of the year. Pav for breakfast, a ham as big as a nine-month-old baby in a pillowcase in the fridge and for some, the cricket. But not for me. If I want to be bored out of my brains for hours on end and sit on uncomfortable seats, I’ll go to church. Or spend the day in the casualty waiting room of a public hospital.

Much of my Boxing Day will be spent flattening boxes, chucking out plastic packaging and finding places for the carload of merchandise acquired over the previous 24 hours. I’m also the mother of three boys, so for a fair whack of today I’ll be head down finding batteries, small plastic men and pieces of Lego the size of Tony Abbott’s heart. At some point, I’m certain to find myself trawling through the rubbish to find that “really important bit” only for the entire dragon/mother ship/flashing gadget with annoying music to be crushed underfoot moments later. As I tip the broken dream into the bin, I will be overtaken by a deep sense of calm.

I’m feeling a little emotionally raw. Not a fan of this time of year. I like routine and effort. Not the drum roll and fanfare stuff. Which is one of the millions of reasons that I’m not married. The panic of getting everything right and the stress of orchestrating happiness makes no sense to me. The grand gesture days are never the ones I remember. The moments I capture in my head to keep me warm when I’m old are always unexpected.

I spent Saturday afternoon at the Australian Centre for Contemporary Art checking out Richard Billingham’s exhibition People, Places, Animals. Billingham is a photographer best known for images taken of his dysfunctional family “drinking, fighting, smoking, passing out, and pet-throwing in their cramped West Midlands council flat”. His father, Ray, is a toothless alcoholic often snapped struggling to get out of a chair or passed out next to the toilet. His morbidly obese mother, arms covered in tattoos, spends her days doing jigsaws and playing a game console. His brother Jason wanders around the flat with his shirt off, killing flies and smearing their guts into the smoke-stained wallpaper.

The exhibition is stunning. Most of the images are of his family or of animals in zoos. As a boy, Billingham’s only escape from his dysfunctional family was the zoo. The images of the animals butting their heads against the doors of their enclosures, aimlessly pacing up and down, sniffing the same spot over and over all while being watched by curious humans are heartbreaking. And even more poignant juxtaposed with images of his caged family.His work is described as “a cathartic outpouring of his claustrophobic past”. It really hit a nerve with me. Confronted by the images, I had tears pouring down my face. I could smell that cramped council flat, the sweaty upholstery, the unwashed clothes, the cigarette smoke, the stale bottles and the rubbish from the take-away. I was overwhelmed by the airlessness, the hopelessness, the desperateness.There was none of the usual romanticisation of the underclass to make it palatable. This exhibition is not what you’d call a feel-good experience, but it is certainly a feel-something experience. Which is rare in this era of being bombarded by images. Leaps in technology have led to a sharp shift from quality to quantity in photography. It’s ages since I’ve been kicked in the guts by a photo.Billigham’s work made me think about the images of our life, our families and ourselves that we choose to display in frames and photo albums and carry around in our wallets, and the images and truths that we edit out. Billingham’s decision to take the skeletons out of his closet, blow then up and put them in a frame I found liberating. The unhappy snaps, not the happy snaps. Most family dysfunction can’t be photographed. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I’m with Diane Arbus: “I think all families are creepy in a way.”
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