Do you ever feel like your your investing so much time into something that might not ever happen? Like your never gonna get the days back of your life that you spent planning this said event? But then you just sit and do nothing because you think at least your not wasting time when inevitably thats all your doing.
Alright, i’m gonna sit down and basically explain the situation in this ask so everyone of my followers knows why i’m so pissed.
Michael Brown, a 17 - 18 year old african american boy was unlawfully shot (8-10 times supposedly) by police in St Louis, Missouri on saturday, august 9th, 2014. He was unarmed, and had done nothing to attract suspicion other than the fact that he was black. His body was left in the street for 4 hours. (EDIT: i’ve discovered that the Brown family wishes for any and all photos of Michael lying in the streets to be removed. please respect this and do so)
There are several claims from witnesses (see: Dorian Johnson’s account and video [HIGHLY RECOMMEND READING UP ON HIS ACCOUNT, ITS VERY SPECIFIC] — Brown’s friend who experienced the situation first hand, La’Toya Cash and Phillip Walker— Ferguson residents nearby the incident), that fall together in generally close claims. However, the only one who’s claim seems out of place is the police officer’s who shot Brown. Who, by the way, is put off on paid administrative leave AND who’s name remained under anonymity for his safety (However, attorney Benjamin Crump is looking for a way to force release his name). He claims that Brown began to wrestle the officer for his gun and tried attacking him after he told Brown and his friend Dorian Johnson (22) to “get the f*ck on the sidewalk”.
According to Johnson, after a minor confrontation on the officer’s part where he grabbed Brown by the neck and then by the shirt, the officer pulled his gun on Brown and shot him at point blank range on the right side of his body. Brown and Johnson were able to get away briefly and started running. However, Brown was shot in the back, supposedly disabling him from getting very far. He turned around with his arms in the air and said “I don’t have a gun, stop shooting!” By this point, Brown and the officer were face to face as the cop shot him several times in the face and chest until he was finally dead. Johnson ran to his apartment and by the sound of his account, seemingly had some sort of panic attack. Later he emerged from his home to see Brown still laying in the streets. People were gathered with their cellphones, screaming at the police.
Numerous rumors are sweeping around such as Brown stealing candy from a QuickTrip, the store he emerged from calling the cops on him, Brown reaching for a gun, Brown attacking the cop first, ect. But these have all been debunked. (I know a lot of these have been debunked, but im having a hard time finding sources. if anyone could help out and link some legit ones id be SO grateful)
The event in and of itself was terrible, but now it has escalated beyond belief. Around 100 or more people, mostly black, went to the police station to protest peacefully. Things quickly turned bad as martial law got involved and authorities were bringing in K9s, tanks, heavy artillery, ect. The heavy police presence only made things worse as riots began to break out and looting and vandalism started. [ x ] [ x ] [ x ]
Now, as of very recently, the media has been banned from Ferguson. There is also a No-Fly zone above Ferguson for the reason of “ TO PROVIDE A SAFE ENVIRONMENT FOR LAW ENFORCEMENT ACTIVITIES ” as said on the Federal Aviation Commission’s website. Cop cars are lined up on the borders to prevent people from entering/leaving. Media outlets are being threatened with arrest. It completely violates our amendments and everything.
It’s becoming increasingly scary and difficult to find out whats going on over there. I’m afraid this is all the information I have, though. If anybody else knows anything about the situation, please feel free to add on or correct any mistakes i’ve made as i’m no expert on writing these things.
And as a personal favor, i’d really appreciate anyone to give this a reblog in order to spread the word. I think it’s a shame that this is going on in our own country yet so few people know about it. Help me make this topic huge and get this as much attention as possible.
I know that many did not vote this year in the Euro election, but its with a huge disappointment that only 30% voted and in doing so gave Ukip the win with 23 seats.
More importantly this party will do nothing for us as the Youth of the United Kingdom. It fights every equality that has been fought for, it not only brings back sexism, homophobia and racism. But will limit resources and once again forget about the Arts/ Culture that the United Kingdom is losing and will lose furthermore if we are out of the cultural hub of Europe.
As Young people who have the capability to vote and organise some kind of political resistance/ protest. We need to stand together and fight this head on.
Art School Stole Our Virginity: Vienna Famous on Clayton Pettet and his oddly moral ‘sex show’
admin | April 11, 2014 |
“I am your anal virgin. You are my partner. Choose a banana.”
This was the moment I thought I had been waiting for, but I was terrified. My metrosexual front was crumbling; how far would I let myself go for art? I didn’t realize this was going to be quite so…interactive.
Clayton Pettet is naked apart from a pair of black undies; his body is daubed with graffiti saying things like NSFW and ANAL VIRGIN. Now he glares at me from 6 inches away; a fierce, fragile Syd Barrett waif. I can’t quite look him in the eye.
I fumble with the phallic fruit, wondering if I should choose one that won’t hurt him too much, and whether when, ahem, push comes to shove, I can do what I think I’m being asked. Ever the diplomat, I choose a medium sized banana from the massive pile, and return his gaze.
“Penetrate my mouth five times.”
Oh, ok. I can do this. I push it gently between his parted lips and feel his glare on my downturned face. I’ve never squirmed this much for art. I force myself to look up as I finish my final thrust, trying to make this one count.
He holds his hand out for the banana, taking it from me and breaking it in two. Then he throws it on the floor.
“Please leave now.”
Way to bruise a guy’s ego: Art School Stole My Virginity was clearly a lesson in audience chastisement. And so the event that prurient people across the world had prayed for and petitioned against played out like many first times; months of build-up and false starts, leading to a confusing and agonizing 5 minutes of action. And then came the disappointment and recriminations. My own deflowering was no less awkward, but at least I was drunk enough to pass out before I could cringe.
The setting was Theatre Delicatessen on Marylebone High Street, 5 minutes from Oxford Road’s rabid consumerism. The 120 strong queue was made up of 80% Chelsea art students, 15% press and 5% random stalkers. After having our phones and cameras confiscated at the door, we were corralled into a room and left for half an hour to fester in our own dirty minds. A looped video showed Clayton manhandling bananas to Serge Gainsborough’s oral sex anthem Les Sucettes (“I’m never going to be able to eat them again without hearing that song,” someone said after the tenth showing). In between, we listened to hysterical American news reports about the show.
Suddenly, Clayton enters with two boys and a girl, naked but for black briefs and white veils. He’s covered in the kind of frenzied press headlines that had appeared in the months leading up to the show: ’19 YEAR OLD ANAL VIRGIN’ and ‘TEENAGE SEX WHORE’. Clayton scrubs at the words with a heavy-duty brush, the room falling silent apart from the OCD scraping of bristles on bare flesh. The audience gasps as he scratches down into his underpants. Then the boy assistants hack at his hair while the girl applies black lippy: it’s a parody of TV makeover shows that reveals the self-destruction at their core. Clayton exits stage left, and an assistant barks at us boot-camp style: “If I give you a number, go and stand by the pillar.” 15 are picked out and lead off to an uncertain fate.
I wonder if it’s a slight not to be randomly chosen as the assistant’s veiled gaze passes over my head again and again. Finally, the imperious finger falls on me. “I hope we’re not all being slaughtered down there,” I joke to a guy in the queue with an infectious laugh. “Well, my friend came back up and wouldn’t say what happened, but she wanted to leave straight away. And she’s studying Porn and PR.” Does that course even exist? Whatever, the tension’s becoming unbearable.
We’re lead downstairs into a tiny room to wait with the almost-nude female assistant, sardines to the slaughter. Everyone ignores that fact that there’s a naked person in here with us; she’s just another element that adds to one enormous AWK. Another assistant barges in and beckons one person at a time. Then it’s my turn.
I’m lead to a chest-height ‘penetration booth’. “Enter”, the assistant orders, and inside sits Clayton with his pile of bananas…
Afterwards, I emerge blinking into a room full of paintings. “It feels like we’ve been ushered into the gift shop”, someone deadpans. His work is colourful and childlike; Fauvist figures with captions that manage to expose his inexperience while mocking our expectations. “When I was 13 I was desperate to be groomed,” it says in the corner of one self-portrait (with cock in hand). Faced with these unambiguous images, I’m no longer able to pretend I’m here for culture. As Clayton told Dazed afterwards: “They didn’t want an art piece, they wanted to see me have sex”.
And so the art turned out to be us, or at least our anticipation. “It seems a bit early in Clayton’s career to make critics’ reactions the focus of his work”, complained the Telegraph’s Theo Merz a day after the show, but that’s precisely the point. The one-to-many direction of social media means that every young artist has an instant audience whether they like it or not. On this media stage, it’s virtually impossible to make art that ignores its global audience but apparently distasteful to embrace it.
Through this meticulously stage-managed non-event, Clayton successfully played off our competing urges to see and be seen against each other, and it was us not him who stumbled out into the West End evening having lost something. While I’m glad he didn’t do what I thought I wanted him to, I have to wonder whether he really emerged unscathed. I overhear that the first group were instructed to face-fuck him 10 times instead of my 5. It seems even this token abuse is real enough to hurt.
Artist John Bingham, who claimed Clayton had stolen his idea, called off his own rival show Art School Stole My Sexuality the day before after sage advice from his tutors:
“I have been well supported and advised that it would benefit my career as an artist not to go through with such an outrageous, pornographic and self-abusive performance”.
In an even wiser career move, Clayton Pettet made his show all about how far we would go, not how far he would. Working so hard for our pleasure was a painful experience, and that’s precisely how art can matter in an age of instant gratification.
I was fortunate to get into Clayton Pettet’s much-hyped performance on April 1 and it certainly fooled anyone expecting a live sex show. Instead, it was the skilfully executed culmination of months of high profile publicity. I guess that was the intention? The only penetration was made with a (lot…