Word: objecters
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...behind with three of the top 10 overall scoring leaders, and the Big Green also has a star goaltender in Michelle Conroy. The Big Green netminder has not been scored upon in the Ivy League and has 0.58 goals-against average overall. The irresistable force meets the immovable object in 10 days when the Big Red and the Big Green face each other in the Umbro/Cornell Classic in Ithaca...
Sadly, this is nothing new. Images of Asian men in our culture are, to put it mildly, not exactly positive. We're either laughable little creatures who are the object of derision and mockery, even to the point of being asexual, or we're grotesquely--and thus impossibly--masculine...
...course, there's a contradiction inherent in Linklater's project of filming a bunch of nothing much and presenting it as an object for hedonistic consumption: having been filmed it ceases to be nothing much. Thus his 1990 low-budget cult film "Slacker," which shows some aimless people in Austin doing whatever, has become an emblem of "Generation X," and Linklater its ingenuously reluctant spokesperson. How ironic, since the message of his movie and of Douglas Coupland's book was that there's not that much to say, or for that matter to do or to think. And how even...
Then there's the gender problem. Of the 66 artists on view, exactly five are women: O'Keeffe, Eva Hesse, Agnes Martin, Cindy Sherman and Jenny Holzer. You don't need to be a Guerrilla Girl to object to this. By what contorted standards of taste could Jonathan Borofsky's flatulent bits of pictorial free association, or Keith Haring's cute squiggle salads, be thought more original, let alone more beautiful, than the best work of, say, Susan Rothenberg, Nancy Graves, Elizabeth Murray or Vija Celmins? Where are those formidable senior talents, the two Louises, Bourgeois and Nevelson, without whom...
...conscious, her pain pointedly indigestible. Her predilection for the strangely dramatic keeps us even more off-balance. In front of three slide projectors projecting white light with no pictures, Finley strides onstage wearing only black mules, her posture, tone and demeanor daring us to make her into a sex object. We can't because she won't allow us to, her voice stronger than our gaze, conquering and shaming her would-be voyeurs. She puts on a hat, gloves, stockings, a slip, one at a time against different projections of women's art, each time assuming a new persona with...