Yes, I Know What It Says.

Everything an artist does really ought to be for and about our art: Up to and including what we do with our bodies. 

So much of my life has been dominated by having been in the United States Military, even though I wasn't even in it for that long (I did my four years, picked up my ball, and went home.) The overall direction and even the theme of my artwork continues to be dominated by what I had experienced while in uniform, especially what I went through in Iraq. It's really hard to come home from such a horror-show completely unaffected by it, you don't have to be shot at directly to know the horrors of war and what they can do to a person's mind. I realize that I'm incredibly lucky to have an awesome support network and access to a V.A. facility staffed with people who seem to actually give a shit about doing their jobs, but I also realize that there are entirely too many fellow Veterans who suffer needlessly due to administrative and bureaucratic negligence; every day, 22 of which decide to take matters into their own hands and end their lives.

In the past, I've mused and posted on the subject of suicide and it's moral implications: I stand by my word in the regard that I do not believe the act of suicide to be inherently immoral, but something that should be addressed and deterred nonetheless. Hell, there was a time when I myself could have easily joined another batch of 22 dead Veterans, but, as I am typing this even now and you have no doubt caught onto, I did not. I vomited up the stolen pills after it suddenly dawned on me the likelihood that there's probably no afterlife, and that an immediate end to suffering also means an immediate end to EVERYTHING. No more dick-bag squad-mates soliciting me for sex or calling me names, sure, but also no more orgasms or art galleries either. Sure, I wouldn't have to worry about going to Hell because it doesn't exist, but then neither would anything else if I had successfully swallowed the pills. Nope, no thanks: I guess I like sex, booze, weed, and video games too much to kill myself after-all.

It's fucked up and horrible, but I get it. And there are still days that I really wish I'd never had to find out, but there's no going back now.

I've been home from Iraq for 5 years and out of the Army for almost 3, I'm about to turn 35 very soon. I go to school full time at the University of Arkansas (part of the reason why I don't get to make posts as often as I'd really like to, school keeps me incredibly busy) and last year I made the Dean's AND Chancellor's lists. Yes, occasionally my PTSD creeps up on me and tries to fuck up my life, but thanks to a regular medication regimen and my super awesome husband who hasn't left my side, I find ways through it. One way I've managed to stabilize myself is through the whole art thing, which for the time being I make no money from but do anyway because I feel like it's something that I NEED to do. 

When I have time and energy to draw or paint, that's pretty much all I fucking do for weeks on end. Problem is, when school is in session or I'm otherwise not in the mood, things start getting stagnant. As much as I enjoy my studies, it leaves me with precious little free time. I need to stay motivated to keep on truckin' through when I'm otherwise just not able to visually communicate my frustrations and fears. Anyone who's seen my work will tell you how deeply motivated by politics, especially when violence and conflict are involved, the bulk of my artwork tends to be. In the military, I found more than I bargained for and it manifested itself in truly peculiar and downright terrifying ways. It saw people do horrible things to one another, even among fellow soldiers, and I still have nightmares about it from time to time; but as far as finding "inspiration" goes, it's pretty hard to top something as fucked up as WAR. As I've said in prior posts, my muses and my demons both wear the same face. They also happen to wear the same uniform I DID. 

But how to I stay motivated and inspired when I CAN'T create content? If I'm too busy to act on my inspiration due to school or psychiatric/medical issues, what could I do to keep that fire burning without burning out? Well, about a week ago I did what any other grown woman who's seen more fucked up shit than a JR Snuff-Film Festival and somehow managed to not die or go completely insane... would have done: 

I paid a nice young man a good chunk of my own hard-earned money to tattoo obscenities across my chest in the language of a part of the world most Americans don't understand.

"Wait... what? OMG WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THAT!?!?!" or maybe "That's going to be there forever, you know that, right?" Yes, I'm quite aware of how tattoos work. This will technically be my fourth tattoo, fourth and fifth in turn if you count each individual word. So why would I do this to myself? Easiest answer, because I'm a grown woman and I'll do whatever the fuck I want: I eat what I want, drink what I want, go where I want, smoke what I want, and fuck who I want (with the informed consent of the other adult/s in question, naturally.) The long answer? The nitty-gritty of why I chose these particular words in this particular language? 

If you don't know me or my background all that well, then clear your schedule for the next 20 minutes, put on some head-phones, and CLICK.

Curiosity satisfied? Maybe you knew, maybe you didn't. It makes no difference to me, I don't expect people to understand how this has so perversely affected me and aspects of my everyday life. It's shitty to have to think about, but I'm fine with it, really. That's part of the reason I created this blog, and why my artwork took the direction it did: I like to think of art as one of the highest forms of protest possible, here's one non-Banksy example of what I mean. I think one reason why people tend not to take the arts, especially the more traditional "fine arts," so seriously anymore is because they think art is for people who can afford to decorate their homes with it or buy tickets to snooty-ass "galas" or whatever they're called. I don't think a lot of people understand that the arts literally define humanity itself, by the values we uphold and the causes we care about. I once asked my Anthropology professor if he thought maybe human creativity could have been the defining factor as to why we spread ourselves across the planet and built civilizations and the Neanderthals did not, and it seems pretty plausible.

When some Daesh-bags overtook a museum in Mosul last year and began smashing ancient artworks, I cried a little inside: Human hands once manifested what human minds designed from a time when humanity was yet young in our understanding of the world, a reflection of the thoughts and values of a people who no longer exist, and now some fuck-heads ruined it for the rest of us because these relics didn't reflect THEIR values. The same could be said of the Buddha statues of Afghanistan, you know, the ones that don't exist anymore because organized religion and reasons. Those statues, from Mosul or Afghanistan, are never coming back: The people who made them have been dead for centuries, replicas may achieve a likeness but they can never reproduce the process that made then truly special; that human touch.

"But Jen," you ask, "You're just a person yourself, too. Someday, YOU'RE GOING TO DIE and your tattoos WILL DIE WITH YOU!" Again, not fun to think about, but inconsequential: Yes, I know I'm going to die someday and that my tattoos, like my very body, won't last forever. I mean, I COULD set aside a fuck-ton of money and write up a fancy-shmancy will detailing precise instructions for mummification, but that hardly seems worth it to me. I'm alive NOW, when I'm dead, I WON'T CARE. Why? Because I'll be fucking dead.

  
This is a "calligraphy project" I did over winter break, where I basically took specific Arabic words that were relevant to my experience and set them against a backdrop of text to give it 'context' 

When I was deployed, I found a crate full of what looked like officially sanctioned "conversational Arabic for Soldiers" books. The books came with a CD inside the cover, so I stole one for myself and tried to pick up just some really basic phrases. I figured that since I was in an Arabic country, there'd be no harm in learning some Arabic on my own. But in the very rare occasion that I'd ever have any dealings with Iraqis, surprise-surprise, they all spoke English. Bummer.

But now that I'm a full-time University Student with a Middle-East Studies Minor tacked onto my History Major, I have to learn Arabic ANYWAY. Personally, I know it's going to be a challenge, but I'm also super-psyched about it: I want to go to graduate school and study American foreign policy and military history, specifically in the Middle East. It's not only relevant to my intended field of study, but it's also relevant to ME.

So what words did I choose and why? Well, I'm about to show you...

THIS WORD is 'alzzandiq' and it loosely translates to "ATHEIST" or "UNBELIEVER"

While my entire world was falling down all around me (even when I tried to kill myself,) my squad-mates never seemed to miss an opportunity to remind me that I was a "sinner" and "not right with god" and THAT'S why I apparently deserved to be sexually assaulted and publicly humiliated. Yep, behold your "heroes in uniform," folks: THESE GUYS get a free beer on Veteran's Day while I still sleep next to a loaded 12-guage. All because I fell in love with another consenting adult who just so happened to out-rank me. The soldier who forced his way into my room and assaulted me wasn't even religious himself, but all of a sudden everyone and their dog was a fucking minister and needed to 'preach' my 'sins' at me almost constantly. PLEASE! If this what Christianity is about, then I'm proud NOT to be one! If your god, or ANY GOD, is honestly okay with using rape (or even an attempt at such) as a punishment for ANYTHING, that god can go fuck itself. 
 

And of course, being that this all went down in a military setting, specifically a combat zone, there are other implications to consider. You might not want to think about it, but there are a lot of damn inconvenient realities to being downrange. For example, if a MAN seeks intimate company while deployed it's because he's lonely and misses home, but if a WOMAN does the same thing then she's a...

... 'Fajira' which is the literal word for "WHORE"
 

I always found it so odd that the only men who've ever called me a whore, to my face or otherwise, seemed to do so when I refused specifically to sleep with THEM. As I said, I'm an adult and I'll do with myself as I please, with whoever I please so long as the pleasure is mutual: What, you think because I openly admit to being a sexual person that I'm "up for anything?" I don't care how "lonely" you were, I don't owe you a lay. I met a man who treated me like a human being instead of a fuck-puppet in ACU's, ONE MAN. If my decision to share my bed and body with someone who made me feel valued, appreciated, and most importantly SAFE, but not with YOU, makes me a "whore" ... then I wear the word with pride.
 

So how do the two words tie in together? I especially remember overhearing the "Whore of Babylon" comment while on extra duty, which is an obvious reference to both Iraq itself formerly being Babylon in ancient times AND to a specific series of passages from the Bible. Revelation 17 and 18, to be specific. Very clever, fellas, very funny. I hope you all had a good laugh about it while you could, because after hitting rock bottom (and almost dying because of it) there's nowhere else to go but UP.
 

It's not pretty and it's probably utterly insane, but this experience has had such a profound impact on my very being that there's simply no going back. It may be ugly, painful, disgusting even, but IT'S MINE.
 

I've been thinking about this tattoo idea for a few months now, and so I spent that time (in what little free time I had between school assignments) looking up specific words, cross-referencing them between different language resources, and triple checking with fluent speakers I know personally. I picked the two that seemed to convey my experience the clearest, traced the lettering onto some paper and gave them an "umbra" with which to highlight the words themselves. t's been two weeks as of this blog post since I marched my happy-ass into Supernova Tattoo and had the words permanently embedded into my flesh, and now that the itching & peeling is done they look fan-fucking-tastic. Better yet, I specifically designed them to resemble the calligraphy pieces I've been working on over winter because the shade behind the words amplifies their appearance. Regular inks atop white or beige paper/flesh just wouldn't cut it, I needed my tattoos to reflect what motivates my art as well as the art itself.
  

"But Jen," you ask, "What will your tattoos look like when you're older?" Well, by the time I'm stocking up on Depends, subsiting on cat-food until the Meals-On-Wheels delivery guy gets to my apartment, and trying not to trip over my own sagging tits, I'll have far more important things to worry about than what my tattoos look like. Besides, why would I want to waste this one life I have with people who'd judge me just for having them? Worrying so much about what other people think of me is a colossal waste of time, energy, and precious LIFE. And if you're REALLY bent out of shape about something that otherwise doesn't affect you, if you were to meet me in my plain-clothes/t-shirt and jeans, you'd never even know that I have any tattoos at all.
 

It's generally been my experience that people who don't like tattoos or piercings, especially on women for some weird reason, are people who live very constrained lives that otherwise wouldn't "allow" for them. What about my job? PLEASE! My boss is 15 years my senior and she has more ink than I do! So do about half of my professors, most of my co-workers, almost everyone I served with in the Army, so... that's pretty much EVERYONE in my immediate social sphere.
 

Still don't like it? Just don't get it? Well, you don't have to like it, OR get it. Know why?

 

... Because just like the words inscribed upon my body, to include my very body itself, It's not yours to "get," IT'S MINE and I'M TAKING CONTROL OF IT.

   

New Artwork (NSFW)

This is proving to be an interesting, and somewhat difficult, Summer for me. I somehow managed to pass the most difficult algebra course I've ever taken (and, hopefully, the LAST ONE I'll ever have to take) in my entire life... with a B. Don't mistake my amazement for ingratitude, because I'm glad I passed the course & met the University curriculum requirement, but holy shit I suck at math so I'm honestly wondering how the fuck that happened. 

But in non-academia related news, I'm having minor surgery at the end of this month: I'm finally getting my tubes tied, and since I'm getting it done through the V.A Hospital, I shouldn't have to pay a dime for it. They say it's a 15 minute out-patient procedure & that I'll be back on my feet within a matter of days. The only downside is that earlier in the month they had to remove my I.U.D, which was followed by a regiment of heavy antibiotics that seemed to do little more than make me sick and fuck me up. I'm fine now, but the odds are good they're going to put me back on them not long after the procedure.

But enough about my lady-bits, I wanted to take some time to show you fine people a bit of what I've been up to in what little free time I've had. Last year, I started work on a series of paintings using donated & discarded military uniforms. Mostly due to school, I've had to put off working on the project until a later date. I'm nowhere near done with this project, but lately I think I've made some pretty significant progress: And today, I'd like to share what I've made with the good people of the Internet.

Keep in mind, this series was made with an underlying theme of sexism, misogyny, and religious fundamentalism that I've experienced in the American military. 

Also, at present, none of these have been framed and they are not up for sale (yet.) I want to make enough that I can display them in a gallery setting before I decide how much I want to charge for them. I'm running out of some crucial supplies faster than the idea-machine that is my mind can keep up with, so if you happen to know where I can get more intact ACUs for cheap, please do let me know. More photos of my work can be seen on my Instagram. 

I haven't quite decided yet what title I want to give this one, but the message should be clear: They show you EXACTLY what they want you to see while trying to hide the things they DON'T.

What we see here are three figures: Two dead women, one of whom is being "displayed" in from of an old television set by a male wearing the uniform, who is trying to hide the body of the other woman from view of the audience (the TV.) During my time in the military, especially while deployed, I heard no end of condemnation of Iraqis treating their own women like shit, even stoning them to death for having beed raped. All the while barely acknowledging the creeping plague of violence and discrimination against women wearing our own uniform, ESPECIALLY rape. 

The male figure is pointing out the "tragedy" that is the dead woman in the niqab for all the public to see, while deliberately hiding both the dead female soldier (the nude figure in the Belleville boots & pro-mask, this will be a recurring theme in this series) AND the bloody knife behind his own back. It's the worst kind of bold-faced hypocrisy that I can think of: Condemning an entire group of people for comitting the exact same kind of violence and discrimination that you are, the only substantial difference is the clothing. 

Moving on...

I'm thinking of calling this one "S.H.A.R.P Training." I realize there's a bit of a shine coming from the right-hand side of the image, that was unavoidable.

S.H.A.R.P is an acronym for Sexual Harassment and Assault Reporting and Prevention: Indeed, the American military loves it's acronyms, they make what should be crucually important ideas and turn them into easily digestible little chunks to be processed quickly & efficiently. In my experience, though, the Army treats S.H.A.R.P training like a "politically correct" inconvenience. Many of my squamates, from my previous unit as well as others, report a similar reaction to the training overall; it's a fucking joke to these people.

Of the several figures in this painting, we see a male N.C.O (Non-Comissioned Officer, any enlisted soldier with a rank of Sergeant or higher) taking the dominant position in our feild of view, he's holding two female figures forcibly by their hair in front of a group of other soldiers. S.H.A.R.P training is typically the responsibility of an N.C.O, though in my experience I've seen lower-level comissioned officers administer it as well, and it's supposed to be conducted either on some sort of regular rotation OR after an incident is reported. 

In my experience and observation, as well as those of my squadmates, the general idea is your typical "No means no, Restricted vs Unrestricted Reports, 'Don't be THAT guy' blah blah blah" kind of speeches, sometimes accompanied by a Power-Point slideshow & sign-in roster. Only what will also happen, rather often actually, is a follow up with "Don't be that GIRL" tropes, full of nods at 'her reputation,'  'what you were wearing,' or 'drawing attention to yourself' etc... otherwise known as victim-blaming or slut-shaming: People think they're being fair, but this ACTUALLY creates an impression that if something DOES happen to someone, that the recipient is somehow to blame for their attackers' actions. In the context of assault & harassment in the military, I've always found the "what were you wearing" question especially ridiculous. I was assaulted & harassed by a male squadmate when I was depolyed to Iraq in 2011, I was wearing the uniform I was fucking issued when he forced his way into my room! 

Next piece...

I don't know what to call this one yet, either. The painting itself isn't very large, either: It's actual dimensions are 8 by 10 inches.

I wish I were joking or exaggerating about this, but ever since Basic Training in 2009 up until my last days in the Army (and occasionally, I still get this drivel forwarded to me via Facebook) I must have heard every single imaginable half-baked 'argument' about why people think women shouldn't be in the military, and I've repeatedly refuted EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM. I get it, you don't want me here: Well I'm already here so either find a way to deal with it or kindly fuck right off.

The Army knows they need us, even if they don't actually WANT us. Type the term "Army FET Team" into Google and see for yourself where we are headed. Wether or not you like the idea, you CHOSE to join the military and the institution permits you to stay as long as you abide certain rules & standards. The military did not "choose" YOU, never forget that.

Moving on (and this next one's going to be a bit, how shall I put this... Georgia O'Keeffe)

Yes, that is EXACTLY what it looks like: A bold & brazen digi-cammo vulva, and I'm thinking of calling this one "Hooah" ;-)

Hey, you saw the Not Safe For Work tag in the title, otherwise you wouldn't have opened the link! We're all adults here, we should be able to discuss things like vagina paintings calmly and rationally, right? It would seem as if other 'grown adults' within the military don't seem to think so, for some strange reason. I promise you that I didn't paint this image for pure shock value, I have a reason (and a story) behind this. 

Of the many subjects we occasionally have to sit through briefings about, there are officially sanctioned health & safety presentations regarding sexually transmitted diseases: The Army has to do this because of parents who refuse to do their damn jobs and educate their own kids properly on the subject, then when they reach enlistment age they often catch S.T.D's like they were goddamn Pokemon. I'll never forget the very LAST briefing about sex & diseases that I ever had to sit through, it actually made me incredibly angry...

The woman they tasked to give this particular briefing couldn't have been that much older than ME, and I was 32 at the time: Supposedly, she worked with the Raymond W Bliss Hospital on post (Fort Huachuca, Arizona) but I must have been there thousands of times & I'd never seen her before. She has poofy house-wifey hair, a mauve sweater and wore "mom-jeans" that looked way too starched. She seemed relatively polite and sincere, especially when considering having to stand in a room full of strangers talking about infected genitalia, but she had this incredibly aggrivating habit that made me want to slap the shit out of her: She could name every single individual piece of MALE anatomy by their proper medical terms, but whenever she was presented with anything involving FEMALE anatomy, she'd give this stupid little shrug-and-giggle and only call it "Hoo-haa."

Both sets of Labia were the "Hoo-haa"

The clitoris was also a "Hoo-haa"

Pubis mons, vulva, urethra, etc = "Hoo-haa"

EVERYTHING biologically female (regarding this particular presentation, as the military STILL won't allow transgender soldiers regardless of wether or not they transition) was reduced to the level of jr high school snickering followed by the obligatory "Hoo-haa" as if this bitch wasn't grown enough to know what her own organs are, as if she was ashamed of being a fucking woman and had to let everyone else know it, too! And the REALLY irritating part of this, is that every time she did it, others in the audience would laugh. 

Seriously, bitch? What are you, goddamn 9 years old!? Did you only just recently pick up a copy of Grey's Anatomy and skim through it while glancing over your shoulder like a fucking CHILD?!?!?! Fuck you, you willfully ignorant Stepford escapee!

...

*deep breath, bong rip*

Yep, apparently not only is being a woman something to be embarassed about overall, but in the Army it is something to avoid openly asserting at any cost. Lest one becomes reduced to the subject of juvenile sneers or giggles it would behoove you to completely forget who you are.

And lastly, I'd like to bring you back to the beginning of this series...

THIS painting is actually twice as tall as it is wide, part of the reason why it didn't photograph terribly well. It's about a year old and I STILL have no idea what to title it.

What you (unfortunately) can't see in this photograph is her stepping nervously in poorly fitted Belleville boots, the idea was to create a feeling of fear and nervousness like she's being unwittingly exposed to a situation she might not have any control over. As I said earlier, there's a recurring theme of female figures in Bellevilles & pro-masks to signify that this figure is supposed to be a soldier, but not quite. I did this on purpose, here's why: In order for a figure to have an identity, they need to have a face. Having a face shows that you are a person, and a person has feelings and rights. Have you ever worn a pro-mask? It's awful, they smell weird and aren't easy to breathe through; I chose the pro-mask on these figures to demonstrate the "dehumanizing" element of sexism, especially sexual violence, against women in the military.

Once you step forward and make a report, or someone so much as notices you in the wrong context, the ensuing harassment and retaliation serves to strip you of your status as a human being and turn you into a 'thing' to be acted upon. You become an inconvenience, a walking meat-sack occupying otherwise an otherwise useful uniform. You identity ceases to be YOU and becomes what is dictated TO YOU or even UPON YOU, at least as far as THEY are concerned.

I hope you've enjoyed what I've shown you so far, there will be more work to come in the future.

Creepy-Pastas

Holy shit-a-brick, why didn't anyone tell me about these things YEARS AGO!?!? If you don't know what a Creepy-Pasta is, it's basically a short horror story or collection of stories surrounding a scary subject. Creepy-Pastas are basically online urban legends and folklore, there's even a term for phenomena like Slenderman called "fake-lore." Fake-lore is, pretty much, exactly what it's spelled out as. 

I can't stop reading these things, these short little stories are addictive. There are even Narrators that get paid (mostly via Patreon) to read them on YouTube or other Internet media. 

 

THIS is my favorite one of all time so far: I should warn you, it's extremely disturbing...

It's also a long one, but it's divided into sections jike entries from a blog or journal. So if you want to take a break after each entry, it's easy to do so.

Want to "Thank" Me For My Service?

I hope you're all safely enjoying Memorial Day Weekend, but before you eat another burger, buy another Louis Vuitton purse on sale, or drink another beer on the beach today... I have something I need of you. If you want to REALLY thank me for my military service, you can share this little "art project" with your Battle-Buddies and get them to talk about it with their Chain of Command. E-mail it to the Army Times, even though I know they don't give a fuck about this subject and are probably sick of hearing from me about it.

Please enjoy responsibly.

UPDATE 27-MAY-2014:
Um... so it seems this post is in the process of going viral, because it got about a thousand hits in 24 hours. That's more hits in one day than ANY PREVIOUS POST I've made so far, even the ones that I've deliberately plastered on every Facebook page & trending hashtag on Twitter in the past. Wow, thanks for getting this out there, folks! PLEASE keep it up, every person that sees this is another person who might actually decide to write to their Congressman/woman or Senator, which is EXACTLY what survivors need. Remind our elected officials & military "leaders" who it is they actually work for!

BUT, I also needed a moment to address something else that came up yesterday as an immediate result of this post's sudden "popularity" because it's actually quite relevant to the timing of this whole project. There's a deliberate reason why I chose a national holiday to do this...