Author: Rachel

So, I know I’m pretty late in jumping aboard the Scandal train, but that’s what Netflix is all about, right? Right. This week (after finally getting all caught up on Mad Men of course) I decided Scandal would be my next Netflix drama to watch and damn, let me just tell you, I was far from disappointed. The overall positive reaction stemmed not from the script or the production quality, rather it was the refreshing complexity of the cast of characters that immediately had me hooked. Complex characters are, to me, something that have been so missing from television, too often sacrificed for a plot full of twists and turns designed to keep viewers coming back. I’ve noticed that shows that focus on character development rather than plot development are typically much more able to sustain long term high quality whereas there is only so much you can do with plot development. Complex characters give viewers something to latch onto because real people are complex. I see a bit of myself in each character of Scandal because they all operate on multiple levels: career, personal, romantic, head vs heart, etc. The show, thus far, explores what happens when these levels establish conflicting interests and this, my friends, is what had me sold after one episode.

It also doesn’t hurt that the protagonist Olivia Pope is a powerhouse woman who is a highly intelligent and confident leader. However, she is not dehumanized into “the bitch” figure often associated with women in charge, but rather highly respected by her colleagues and very relatable on a personal level to the audience. By this I mean that she is a complicated person just like you and me, one who’s leadership role doesn’t detract from her humanity.

My final piece of praise is for the show’s creator Shonda Rhimes and the writing team who manage to address at-large social and political topics in an extremely natural and nonjudgmental way. The whole purpose of Pope’s organization is to offer help to people without judgement. In the first two episodes this includes a potential murderer and a high end prostitution ring “Madame.” The show’s ability to address issues of politics, homosexuality, and the sex industry unflinchingly in the first few episodes says to me that it will not back down from topical issues, nor will it pass judgement on anyone without justifiable cause. To me, this is yet another affirmation of the value of each individual’s story, and though these stories may not fit with the commonly accepted standard culture has set, each story deserves to be valued, told, and heard. This story is breaking tremendous boundaries and I can’t wait to see how the next three seasons unfold.

You all know what I’ll be doing this weekend…

As many of us know, art can be quite moving, but for a very long time I dubbed myself as emotionless. It’s not that things didn’t move me, I just felt incapable of showing it. After finishing a particularly engaging novel I would mourn the loss of the “friends” I had made, by sort of shutting down and reliving the events of the book until I could let it go. That was my way of being moved. At no point did I shed a tear. I know when you’re “supposed” to cry – when things are tragically sad or wonderfully happy – but I always internalized these feelings rather than expressing them through heartfelt tears. My father, unlike myself, is quite the crier. By this I mean when he is moved, he lets it all out. I used to make fun of him for crying at the animated classic Beauty and the Beast, but deep down I always sort of envied his ability to release his emotions in such a natural way. Even my mom easily became tearful when confronted with the intricate beauty of opera or a work of classical art. After noticing my own connections with moments of beauty did not reflect what seemed to be the norm, I began to try to cry. I would stare without blinking to try to well up some dust induced tears, but even though I really did feel the sadness or joy that I wanted to respond to, it always felt insincere to push that hard for something that wasn’t natural to me. Eventually, I just gave up and dubbed myself as “not a crier.” I adopted the tough persona I felt I needed to have in order to explain my inability to express emotion.

However, last year I met one of my (now) best friends, who cried at just about everything. We were complete opposites but still cared about the same things. How could this be? Well, this connection with someone who felt the way I did but produced an entirely different emotional response than I did broke down the wall I had built up of “toughness” and allowed instead for me to accept not crying as a perfectly acceptable response. I realized that not crying is just as valid as crying. After that point, when faced with something meaningful, instead of forcing myself to try to cry, I began to let myself off the hook and instead embraced opportunities to really feel something. I told myself it was okay to cry if I felt like it and okay to just feel if I didn’t. By taking off this pressure I’ve since been able to experience art in a whole new way, allowing it to move me to a natural response and not a forced one. I now realize I don’t have to be a crier or an ice queen, and this has allowed me some good healthy cries as well as some really deep completely internal responses.

What this journey means to me is that art can evoke a variety of responses, but none is right or wrong. No matter how sad, brilliant, moving, or delightful something may be, your experience is only appropriate if it is the one most natural to you.

These past couple of years have seen the commendable growth of the amount of women in the rap industry. I really began to take notice when Nicki Manaj started showing up on several of Young Money’s more popular tracks such as “Bed Rock” and Lil Wayne’s “Knockout.” This was a lot of talent and exposure for someone who hadn’t even released her own album yet. Not long after Nicki’s fame began to spread followed a handful of other young women who, little by little, started venturing into this male dominated music genre. Up until this point, the category of female rap had been a mostly one woman at a time kind of thing. Lil Kim and Missy Elliott were sort of the household names in female rap when I was coming into appreciation of the genre, and even then I mostly heard them on other (male) artist’s tracks.

When Nicki Manaj came along, there was a glimmer of hope that the exclusivity of the male rap world was opening up a door to women. Unfortunately, Nicki Manaj has had to forfeit a lot of her natural talent in order to fit into the pop world (the genre where women are allowed to flourish). Her gritty, risqué, and clever verses of her earlier days had to be sacrificed to mould her into the sexy, colorful, ideal of femininity that pop culture constantly produces and reproduces. Though the lure of pop fame is hard to resist, this did not hush the other female rappers out there searching to get their name out into the rap world. Not much later, Kreayshawn dropped her “Gucci Gucci,” Azealia Banks’ “212” blew up, and now we finally have Iggy Azalea’s “Fancy” playing on top 40 radio. I’m not saying I love all of these songs, I don’t, but it’s about time women were allowed to break the stigma that the genre of pop is the only place for female artists to find success. This means more than just rap. Blues, alternative, and punk/hardcore are all traditionally male dominated music genres. I commend all the women who have broken into the boys club that is subculture musical genres, such as “Queen of the Blues,” Koko Taylor and pop-punk lead vocalist of Tonight Alive, Jenna McDougall.

Unfortunately, it’s still hard for society to except more than one female and the media is pitting these artists against one another as if there can be only one, for example, female rapper. It’s that kind of logic that keeps carbon copies of the same girl circulating through the mass media. So, I task you this Summer to get out there and support female artists. Not one, not two, not as a feature in some male artist’s song, but as talented and diverse wealth of untapped talent.

Netflix has had nothing but success with the release of its very own set of shows. I was instantly hooked on Orange is the New Black from the very first episode. For those of you who haven’t heard, this show is based on Piper Kerman’s memoir of her year in a Women’s Correctional Facility for her minor participation in a drug trafficking incident. In the first few episodes I was smitten by the show’s combination of witty dialogue, a great set of characters, and endless twists and turns that left me salivating for more. However, after the intrigue of these early episodes, I became increasingly disappointed with where the show was headed. The writers seemed determined to deliver the show’s promise of a juicy plot, so much so that the storyline grew increasingly unrealistic. Unrealistic may be the wrong word; if it’s well done, a show can have me fully invested in a zombie apocalypse or a meth masking high school chemistry teacher, but the fantasy world of this correctional facility started to take turns that didn’t feel organic for the characters. I became increasingly aware and skeptical of the writer and director’s choices, which took me entirely out of my former investment in this fictional world. About 3/4 of the way through Season 1, the only thing keeping me going was the constant cliff hangers left at the close of each episode. I wanted to find out what would happen next, but I didn’t quite believe in this world. By the finale I was torn about whether I could make it through another season. However, I have to say that this season 2 trailer promises the return of the characters that make the show worthwhile. Where the writing wanes, this diverse and tough group of women are the magnetic force driving me to continue watching this show. So, if you haven’t started your free trial of Netflix just yet, get it by June 6th or miss the (hopefully) epic return of this dynamic and fantastical cast of Orange is the New Black.

When my best friend since the first grade told me that she was pursuing our childhood aspiration of becoming a fashion designer, I was overwhelmed with utter joy at the fact that she never let go of her dream no matter how far fetched it seemed to our 13 year old selves. Well, say goodbye to far fetched because the things I saw at the WMU MODA (Merchandising Opportunities Design Association) 2014 Spring Fashion Show last weekend absolutely blew me away. First of all, let’s start with the venue. Downtown Kalamazoo’s Radisson is no casual location and the sheer organization put into the making of this show exuded professionalism. As I walked into The Kalamazoo Room, I felt like I was entering the real deal. A long shimmering runway extended down the length of the room with rows of chairs lining each side, people dressed to the nines swarmed in and took their seats, cameras stood at the end of the runway waiting to document the evening. The moment the music started pumping, I was transported into some mystical high fashion land, looking at pieces I could not believe were created by college students. MODA made a really fantastic choice to use women of all body types and skin colors (not to mention the wide array of tattoos) for models, which reinforced the sense of attainability that accompanied the over all glamor of the night. Something about seeing such a variety of beautiful and talented young women and men put together something of this magnitude upheld the idea that you really can do anything you put your mind to. As this all began to sink in, I felt complete confidence that this was what my best friend was meant to do and she would never let anything stand in her way of doing it. Watching the success of the night unfold was like hitting a refresh button inside of me that washed away all of the doubts and fears that accumulate when I think about my future. In the magic of that night, the ever cliched “anything is possible if you just believe” no longer sounded so unlikely.

As I sat in the UMMA lobby waiting for the rest of my Art History class to arrive, I pulled out my laptop to work on a paper. After a minute or so I had a disconcerting feeling that I was being watched. Slowly I glanced up and took at closer look at the words being projected on the screen in front of me and noticed a line of brief phrases that went a little something like this “adjusts clothes / sits down on bench / pulls out laptop / crosses legs…” I realized that these were all things I was doing and looked around, making brief eye contact with a girl who held my gaze, smiled, and returned to furiously typing on her laptop. Then I looked back to the screen: “smiles briefly / looks at the projector.” Then I knew for certain that I was being watched. So here I sit, writing about an artist writing about me, though not just me. She taps away at her laptop, fast brisk descriptions of everyone in the room, describing the environment, the people, everything she sees feels hears. Is this art? She’s writing about me again, about my typing. Little does she know it’s about her. We’re engaged in a symbiosis of using each other to create our art. Funny how that works.