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#fanzines about trans sex
fanzines · 8 months
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Beautiful mini zines about identity, dinosaurs, hair loss, trans sex and more by zinester / artist shortsplit. Buy them here. Or buy digital versions here.
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fettesans · 1 year
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Top, screen capture from Aftersun, directed by Charlotte Wells, 2022. Via. Bottom, screen capture from the program Open Door, 1973–83, still from a TV show on BBC2. “North West Spanner Theatre Group: Born Free Trapped Ever After,” 1980. Via.
Contrary to the US public-access television that inspired it, which was narrowcast on local cable stations, Open Door was broadcast nationwide on a channel with a directive to act in the interest of the country. Anyone could propose an episode so long as they were not promoting a political party. Those selected were paired with a producer and crew for technical assistance but ostensibly retained full editorial control. Prison abolitionists, sex educators, fox-hunt saboteurs, punk fanzine–makers, single parents, vegans, community-theater enthusiasts, trans advocates, supporters of Palestinian liberation, women suffering from cystitis: They all reached millions. (This last group, the U & I Club, received thousands of letters from viewers.) Not all causes showcased were progressive. While individual episodes of Open Door were free from the requirement of “balance” mandated by the BBC charter, when taken as a whole, the series was meant to be inclusive of a wide spectrum of opinions. Absent from “People Make Television” was a 1976 episode by the British Campaign to Stop Immigration, a group linked to the extreme-right National Front party. Included was one by the Campaign for the Feminine Woman warning of the dangers of “unisex culture,” something “more menacing and damaging . . . than either communism or fascism.”
Erika Balsom, from on “People Make Television”, in THE SCREEN AGE: VIDEO’S PAST AND FUTURE, for Artforum, May 2023.
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Straight culture’s orientation toward heteroromantic sacrifice is also influenced by socioeconomic class. Respect for sacrifice—or sucking it up and surviving life’s miseries—is one of the hallmarks of white working-class culture, for instance, wherein striving for personal happiness carries less value than does adherence to familial norms and traditions. Maturity and respectability are measured by what one has given up in order to keep the family system going, an ethos that is challenged by the presence of a queer child, for instance, who insists on “being who they are.” Queerness—to the extent that it emphasizes authenticity in one’s sexual relationships and fulfillment of personal desires—is an affront to the celebration of heteroromantic hardship. As Robin Podolsky has noted, “What links homophobia and heterosexism to the reification of sacrifice . . . is the specter of regret. Queers are hated and envied because we are suspected of having gotten away with something, of not anteing up to our share of the misery that every other decent adult has surrendered to.”
For many lesbian daughters of working-class straight women, opting out of heterosexuality exposes the possibility of another life path, begging the question for mothers, “If my daughter didn’t have to do this, did I?” Heterosexuality is compulsory for middle-class women, too, but more likely to be represented as a gift, a promise of happiness, to be contrasted with the ostensibly “miserable” life of the lesbian. The lesbian feminist theorist Sara Ahmed has offered a sustained critique of the role of queer abjection in the production of heteroromantic fantasies. In Living a Feminist Life, she notes that “it is as if queers, by doing what they want, expose the unhappiness of having to sacrifice personal desires . . . for the happiness of others.” In the Promise of Happiness, Ahmed argues, “Heterosexual love becomes about the possibility of a happy ending; about what life is aimed toward, as being what gives life direction or purpose, or as what drives a story.” Marked by sacrifice, misery, and failure along the way, the journey toward heterosexual happiness (to be found with the elusive “good man”) remains the journey.
Jane Ward, from The Tragedy of Heterosexuality, September 2020. Via.
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