SONGBIRDS

Thanks to a certain person in a certain big white building in the USA, women’s rights have never been more precarious.

At the recent Women’s Marches following the inauguration of Donald Trump the message, by both male and female demonstrators, was that women’s rights are human rights and that “women won’t be Trumped”.

Sadly though, it appears it's still a man's man's man's world within the music industry. Artists including Bjork, Lady Gaga and Laura Mvula have been vocal about sexism in the industry, with Gaga speaking out about sexual assault and the desire to be taken more seriously as an intelligent and talented musician rather than being associated just with body image. A recent Guardian article reported that although women make up 59% of entry-level business roles, only 30% of women hold senior executive roles. 

But, there could be a change on the horizon. Music experts and celebrities alike are calling for women to be recognised in all aspects of the industry and Madonna's acceptance speech at the Billboard Women in Music 2016 event last year may have been deeply moving but was also rousing.

PRS for Music have previously reported that their membership of over 95,000 songwriters and composers is only 13% female and allegedly, there have been cases of female writers pitching songs under a male pseudonym to give themselves a better chance (very 19th century female author, don’t you think?). So, Laid Bare founder Rami Radi has started a campaign via 38 Degrees called #takehername to coincide with International Women’s Day on 8 March 2017. 

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The campaign is a call for action to encourage male artists to change their name across their social media platforms on IWD - to a female version of their name, in support of female musicians and songwriters in the industry. For IWD this year, women are being asked to ‘be bold for change’ but Rami wants to go one extra and encourage men to ‘change to be bold’.

You can be part of this amazing movement too. On Thursday 23 February 2017, Laid Bare will be staging an exciting event called Songbirds at London’s 93 Feet East on Brick Lanein support of this campaign and to challenge attitudes towards female musicians.

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It’s not just about activism on the night though - the event is also, importantly, about showcasing and celebrating technically gifted women in music who are excelling in their field. The all female line up will comprise of five London based musicians, and celebrated DJ, Jenn Crothers will playsome great tunes late into the night.

Laid Bare’s newest signing Sula Mae will launch her excellent new single, “Blind” on the evening. East London singer-songwriter Sula cites Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone and Aretha Franklin as vocal influences. Her EP of the same name is largely influenced by the Bristol-bred Trip Hop sounds of Portishead, Massive Attack and Tricky. 

Also featuring are Cornish musician Polly Money who will showcase her melodious, sun-kissed voice and cheeky blend of pop and Bee Bakare whose upbeat, heartfelt tracks have earned her winner of the Future Music Songwriting Competition 2017. Completing the Songbirds all-female line up will be Brixton born and bred Elisa Imperilee whose debut EP is a melting pot of soul, R&B, jazz and hip-hop, and AutumnMusic who builds intricately-layered vocal loops live on stage, weaving her stories and experiences into songs that make her part singer, part producer, part poet.

It’s set to be an amazing evening - but with a purpose. “With almost 90% of the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame being made up of male musicians we need to move on from pigeon-holing female musicians by image and understand that good musicianship is all that counts” says Rami. 

Closing, with Madonna. In her BillBoard acceptance speech she called on women to “start appreciating our own worth, and each others worth” and encouraged them to “…seek out strong women to befriend, to align yourself with, to learn from, to be inspired by. To collaborate with. To support. To be enlightened by.

Songbirds is a very good place to start.

Songbirds takes place on Thursday 23 February 2017 at 93 Feet East, 150 Brick Lane, E1 6QL.

Doors: 19.00. FREE ENTRY

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LAID BARE WEBSITE

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SIGN THE #TAKEHERNAME PETITION HERE

A Sentence a Day - 18 February 2017

In 2017 I will be writing A Sentence a Day. You can read more about why here.

Today is the 18 February 2017.

Question:

Who is the biggest influence in your life right now?

Answer:

Apart from all the strong, creative, working women I know, I would say it's my little baby Evan - he has transformed the way I approach and think about things and has given me a sense of perspective, of what's really important in life; he keeps me grounded.

A Sentence A Day - 26 March 2015

In 2015 I will be writing a Sentence a Day. You can read more about why here.

Today is the 26 March 2015.

Question:

What is one political issue you feel passionately about?

Answer:

The every day sexism (including, but in no way limited to, harassment, unequal pay, sexual assault, rape, violence, objectification and unwanted attention) experienced by women every single day of their lives, all over the world.  Will it ever stop?

https://twitter.com/EverydaySexism

Sorry, can't make it. I have an appointment with me.

Running along the Southbank the other night after work, huffing and puffing and careering in and out of PEOPLE THAT HAVE TIME TO DAWDLE I clapped my eyes on something that nearly stopped me in my tracks.

A chic woman in a quilted puffer jacket (v. J Crew) was sat outside the BFI's Riverfront Bar, sipping slowly from a steaming great mug of coffee while reading a book under the warm red glow of an outdoor heater.

Nothing unusual about this you say and I agree. Yet, I couldn't take my eyes off her and a pang of mild envy smacked me round the chops without warning.

This malaise had nothing to do with not being able to feel my face thanks to an icy side wind coming off the Thames. Nor that my tatty Berghaus beanie made me resemble Badly Drawn Boy rather than a glowing goddess as we're supposed to look when exercising. No, this was because said lady was sat there doing absolutely nothing. Diddly squat. Nada. No phone, no companion, no evidence of work of any sort. Just her, a book and a hot beverage (and a great coat). There may even have been a cake. She was the antithesis of me; a picture of total and selfless relaxation.

As I trotted on towards the Hungerford Bridge and got stuck behind an overzealous tourist with a selfie stick, I mulled this over in my cold head. When was the last time I actually sat in a café and read something for leisure, rather than obligation? Stopped for longer than ten minutes to focus on one single thing, with no laptop, interruptions or iPhone and just savoured the pure, unadulterated enjoyment of reading?

I couldn't for the life of me remember. This troubled me.

Back in 2007 when I lived in Australia and first arrived as a pasty, scared thing and knew not a soul apart from my sister (I eventually dropped the fear but sadly the pallor never left) I would hang out in bookshops and various eateries in the early few days before city working. Just me, a Lonely Planet and a dog-eared book. I would gulp local coffee and read feverishly, stopping only to scribble some profound nonsense in a travel journal and have a nose at what was going on around me. I would eat whatever I felt like (*I'll have your finest flapjack and a plate of halloumi please*) and leave only when I couldn't make a tap water stretch any further or my bum had gone completely numb. A Jack Johnson soundtrack usually tinkled in the background, he being the epitome of repose.

Later independent travel provided further magic moments to pause in between destinations, seek out a second-hand bookshop and spend any leftover beer money on a battered but well-loved edition. As a result I was quite well-read and had a renewed sense of acuity and calmness. I'd meet the most interesting people when I least expected it. Luckily, Billy No Mates soon got some mates but I'd still disappear every now and then on my own.

Sigh. Which plonks me back down to Earth onto the arctic Southbank, the chilled lady and me squishing in an evening run. Clearly, when you're travelling / on your holidays you have a ton more free time on your hands. In those carefree days, I was sans responsibility, a busy job or an other half and my bestest mates were miles away. I could lounge about in hostels, chat to randoms and enjoy the benefit of wearing 'outdoor clothing' from Millets without fear of bumping into someone I knew. Just me, hanging out with me.

So the puffer lady got my brain ticking and ponder. Ahem, in a very Carrie Bradshaw way *typed words appear on screen*: Why couldn't we carve out some free time from our frantic schedules every now and then and gift it to ourselves? You know, take a breath and escape the chaos. Spend a bit of time doing exactly what we want, not what we have to. Enrich our souls and quiet our minds and... *thud*. That was the sound of a sleep-deprived parent throwing a Peppa Pig book at my head.

Ok, ok I hear you. The reality is there IS no spare time, barely time to pee let alone nibble on a flapjack and peruse a classic Hemingway. Life is so jam-packed and full these days, with crammed professional and personal schedules that there's hardly time to breathe. Free time is appallingly infinitesimal. But isn't it time we invested for the sake of our health and frazzled brains? Make an appointment with ourselves?

How about we all try this experiment together: Put a meeting in our diaries, half an hour here and there, just for ourselves and and stick to the commitment. Adjust this plan to fit to our individual circumstances - perhaps half hour when the kids are in bed to flop on the sofa and read, maybe escape the desk and Regain your Lunch Break as recommended by Stylist or get up with the larks and sneak out when your bed companion's still snoozing and go out for a stroll - just you, your iPod and your inner thoughts. Let's all report back on our findings.

My friend Vicki recently shared with me a beautiful phrase - dolce far niente which, roughly translated, means the 'sweetness of doing nothing'. What a gorgeous concept. Puffer lady had perfected her 'niente'. Mine's a bit rusty, but I've blocked out some time a few Sunday's away to experience the dolce of reading The Goldfinch, sat woefully on my bedside table unread since Crimbo, in a new brunch place round the corner. It should keep me grounded, power me through the bad stuff that life has chucked our way recently and reenact that wonderful sense of liberty I once experienced in Sydney, San Diego, Auckland, Hobart, Lima - right here in London.

So lovely friends, please accept my apologies the next time I decline a vino, a lunch or another adventure around town which you know I'm always up for - I have an appointment with me.

Next time you walk along the Southbank, take a look. It might be me there under the glow of a heater with my nose in a book.

In a better hat I hope.

Abs-olutely Not Fabulous

If you’re not a size 6, then you’re not good looking. Well you better be rich or be real good at cooking.

Is it me, or is it impossible right now to open a magazine or join the social media circus without an abdominal muscle smack bang in your face?

It feels like we can't move for six-packs, cheese-grater abs, pancake-flat stomachs and washboard midriffs all over the show. Perfectly honed abs are TAKING OVER THE WORLD and it's becoming a bit grating if you'll pardon the pun.

The fabulous Polly Vernon recently declared ankles and the midriff the erogenous zones of Now, with a capital N. Polly talks a load of sense (and charts lust in such a clever way that even Howard Jacobson took note) so this must be a Thing. Furthermore, the other day the Chart Of Lust used Rihanna (yawn) to launch a semi-regular Abs of the Week segment which means, Lord help us, a dose of feel-terrible-about-your-non-celebrity-body to stomach (if you'll pardon the pun, again).

Instagram, once an interesting platform for wonderful photos (that's you, thegoodly), somewhere to nose around at what the famous ones are up to and catch Breaking.Fashion.News with a FROW-side view (behold, there are feminists on the Chanel Catwalk! etc) is fast descending into a shameless, look-at-me fest to rival its archenemy Facebook. There are now squillions of accounts dedicated to manic, pumping fitness churning out a stream of toned body parts, especially abs, that makes you feel guilty as hell for eating five segments of Terry's Chocolate Orange when you only meant to pop one in your mouth (NB: surely orange oil provides one of your five a day?). Even if you accept deep down the clever use of filtering, saturation, sharpening and the like is at play it's hard not to suck in your tummy and pull down your top a bit self-consciously.

There's no escaping the fact that abs are getting cosy with fashion - crop tops and bralets are having a moment and have been in that moment for a while now, with labels like Carven, Louis Vuitton and Calvin Klein featuring wispy models with stomachs on show over the past couple of seasons. Just like brilliant clompy ugly-chic shoes, cropped tops are now a regular feature on the catwalk. Styling the beautiful Rosamund Pike in a Dior Cropped Wool Polo Neck with a sizeable portion of midriff on show in the October 2014 edition of British Vogue is evidence enough that it is de rigueur to flash one's belly.

Wait. Before I go on, let me make one thing absolutely crystal here before you pelt me with a protein shake - I'm no fit-shamer. I'm a regular gym-goer and squish working out into a busy schedule to counterbalance my penchant for consuming Prosecco and orange-flavoured chocolate. Arguably, it's a feminist issue too - women should be able to celebrate their bodies and no one has the right to deny them of their choice to portray or display themselves as they damn well please.

What really gets my goat though is the enormous pressure on women (and men) to look 'perfect' and how society expects us to look and behave. The saturation of images in the media, print or digital, deemed to be the ideal but in reality are unattainable-without-a-personal-trainer-or-eating-only-green-stuff might feel like a smack in the gut (sorry, again) for people who have a job, raise children, fulfil caring responsibilities and have a bit more on their plate to deal with than sculpting their hard abs. For the Wonder Women who work hard on their bodies AND lead their busy lives (and just get on in with it rather than share with the rest of the world) I salute you.

It makes me wonder though, is this never-ending stream of idealism sending us all a bit doolally as we try to achieve the almost unachievable? I'm scared we're losing the plot. Women are squeezing 7 Minute Workouts into every available cavity of the day and furiously Pushing Up, Crunching, Squatting, Dipping, Jumping Jacking and Planking the shit out of every spare moment, even when we're supposed to be resting or on holiday. We're being sucked into the social media vacuum and hanging on for dear life as we're told what we're expected to do and achieve. 'How Kim got her little waist'. 'How to get Ellie Goulding's toned Glastonbury torso'. 'Millie's non-stop work outs'. Non-stop? Argh. Stop!

Without disclosing the account name (as Jameela Jamil once said this is the moment you go from having an opinion to being a bully) there is one particular transformational fitness Instagram account that alarms and fascinates me. The owner of said account in the US recently shared photos of herself at a spa tricep-dipping off any available flat surface, barely allowing a moment of relaxation to pass without flexing a muscle or springing up and down. The accompanying commentary said 'No spa day is complete without a tricep hold' and #MostRelaxingDayEver. Dear God, it's a SPA. SIT DOWN. Read a book. Give yourself a break. Flop on a lounger and grab yourself a glass of fizz. Un-dip yourself at once.

Worryingly, 'skinny apps' exist that allow users to slim down their pictures for Instagram. SkinneePix claims to help you 'edit your Selfies to look 5, 10 or 15 lbs skinnier in two quick clicks on your iPhone. It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s fun'. Erm, it's the end of sense as we know it. A distorted concept. Since when did abs become more important than showcasing kindness, intelligence and talent?

Is the relentless ab-onslaught putting women under immense pressure to look perfect when we should be conserving our energy for important topics like as the gender pay gap and carving the way for the women of tomorrow? Julie Bentley, CEO of GirlGuiding UK recently spoke in Stylist Magazine of visiting girls who were participating in her Be Body Confident campaign and Free Being Me badge that centres on tackling girls' low self-esteem. She cites that 'girls are often aware of what society suggests they are supposed to look like - but this isn't necessary what they see themselves when they look in the mirror'. This really makes me sad. They should be celebrating their ambition and achievement, not worrying about their looks.

I'll leave you with this powerful entry to the marvellous Everyday Sexism Project to put things into perspective.

I look at images of women everywhere I go - in shop windows, on the sides of buses, in the tube, on the backs of newspapers, in magazines open on women's laps, on billboards, on videos, on TV, on the internet, popping up in my screen. They are all the same. They are taller than me, so much thinner than me, beautiful, flawless, perfectly made up. Many, many of them are revealing their long, toned legs right the way up to the tops, their flat, flawless stomachs in all their tiny, tiny glory, their ample cleavages looking perfect - not fat but perky. They are all that way - there aren't any that I can look at and think, she's a bit like me, that's OK. And they are everywhere. There is no escape. When I look in the mirror, I see myself and over the top I superimpose that image and all I see is the difference between us. When I meet new people I feel like they are looking through me to those differences too. She is everywhere and I can't escape her and I'm terrified my boyfriend compares her to me constantly and finds me constantly wanting. Know the funniest part? I'm a very normal size. I'm not obese or fat, I have a pretty good figure. But it's nothing compared to hers. And she's everywhere.

So now I am SHOUTING at you (with a Chanel-inspired megaphone). Inspirational, beautiful, intelligent women everywhere, let's see your talent and ideas, your kindness and strength as well as your lovely stomachs - no matter the shape, size or hours spent moulding them (or filtering them).

Don't waste your time, effort and energy on the unachievable and entirely unimportant. There is no need to reflect your worth through your body parts and let's stop feeding the media circus that perpetuates this ridiculous, asinine ideal.

You are so much better than that.

You are amazing as you are.

'I feel I was put on earth for a number of reasons... The biggest reason is to help normalise a certain kind of body (and therefore all bodies).

 

Lena Dunham

I Only Want You to Love Me

This afternoon, on a crisp Autumn day in London Town, I paid a visit to the Miles Aldridge photographic exhibition, I Only Want You to Love Me, at the beautiful Somerset House.

This stylish and thought-provoking exhibition provides a retrospective of Aldridge's work and coincides with the publication of his glossy book of the same name published by Rizzoli. Aldridge was born in North London and his father is the graphic designer Alan Aldridge. He studied illustration at Central St Martin's and after a brief stint directing pop videos, he fell into fashion after sending some of the photos of a model girlfriend to British Vogue and they contacted him (as well as her). He started working almost immediately and has shooted for noted fashion designers such as Karl Lagerfeld, Yves Saint Laurent and Paul Smith.

Women and colour are Aldridge's main obsessions and this is arrestingly clear in his work. The photographs are visually beautiful, highly stylised and feature women posed in what on the surface appear to be traditional roles (secretary, housewife etc) but when you look deeper under the surface there is a sense of disturbance. The colours are deeply saturated from sugary candy pinks and beige to shocking magenta and verdant green and the composition is incredible.

All images shown in the exhibition are featured in magazines, the majority in Vogue Italia, and Aldridge's longest and most creative collaboration is with Editor-In-Chief Franco Sozzani who featured his work in a piece named Home Chic for Vogue Italia in October 2011 and Home Works in March 2008. In addition to the beautiful large-scale photographic prints produced throughout his career, visitors can see hand-drawn storyboards, drawings and polaroids that offer an intriguing and intimate insight into Aldridge's creative process.

The exhibition challenges the mind and polarises opinion. On the surface the technicolour images appear rather artificial, and the cinematic influences of David Lynch, Douglas Sirk and Alfred Hitchcock are apparent throughout. The photographs, however, are controversial - in my personal opinion, some of the shots seem to empathise with the models and others objectify and degrade them, leaving you wondering whether Aldridge actually likes women at all. The accompanying narrative to the exhibition suggests some of the models may seem indifferent and show emotional ambivalence, but in fact Aldridge wanted to present them in a state of contemplation and with a sense of hopelessness. Undeniably, some of the exaggerated prints are exploitative - a head pushed down on a bed, unnecessary exposure of the models bodies and them posed surrounded by broken bottles and plates in a suggestively violent scene.

Yet, whatever your opinion there is no mistaking that the prints provide striking, highly stylised fashion images with a powerful impact. Not to be missed.

To me, the great moments in Hollywood are close-ups of a woman's face, thinking, and she's just realised that her whole world is wrong.

Until Sunday, 29 September

Embankment Galleries East, South Wing, Somerset House, Strand, London, WC2R 1LA

http://www.somersethouse.org.uk 

Tickets: http://www.somersethouse.org.uk/book-tickets/8d7b98b9-1438-4cec-9904-65d3dad2246b

 

 

 

Lech off

An interesting thing happened tonight. An attractive woman walked along the Tube passageway in clacking high heels, silk trousers and vest top, stylishly cut hair and a copy of Vogue tucked nonchalantly under her arm. She sailed past a group of men and made her way into the platform almost gloriously unnoticed. They admired her respectively, but quietly.Except they didn't. They looked her up and down with a leery gaze. They tried to get her attention by jeering and blocking her way. They didn't get it (the attention being unwanted of course) and became agitated. She carried on past as confidently as she could, but with an angry defiant blush. I wanted to say something but couldn't be bothered with the backlash myself.

Ladies, welcome to 2013. Where some men (and I really do emphasise some, not the entire species of the male) still believe this kind of nonsense is acceptable. While taking public transport or perhaps simply walking to work (as if Mondays aren't hard enough) they stop and stare steadily until through anger or sheer embarrassment you are forced to react - or vilify you if you dare to ignore them. Even worse still, some think its tolerable to grab you or press themselves up against you.  It is utterly diminishing and it makes me really, really cross.

I scour all the monthly fashion magazines for inspiration on what to wear to pound the streets of London. I would love to be experimental and attempt some of the incredible outfits featured, after all fashion should be fun, but without the fear of (some) men thinking we are all doing it for THEM. Yet, and I am sure my girlfriends will testify, sometimes if we show as much as a flash of ankle on the Tube, that is enough to attract an utter berk. Often my choice of outfit is not based on what I fancy wearing, but dependent on whether I will be out and about on my own or accompanied by friends/husband. This really gets on my wick.

Please do not judge me or assume I am self-adoring, or a bit of a big head. Totally far from it; the opposite in fact. I hope I speak for all women everywhere who may have experienced this kind of twaddle - blokes staring unashamedly at your bits and making you squirm uncomfortably or pull up/pull down what was in fact a perfectly positioned top or skirt. Young boys making rape 'jokes', having your bum pinched or patted (yuck) by total strangers, men with enormous  big bellies honking their horns when you are out running and a sweaty mess (note to paunchy men: it makes us run faster and more determinedly) to name but a few.

Fortunately this is being documented on the Everyday Sexism Project which catalogues instances of sexism and blatant perviness that occur on a daily basis. Laura Bates is aiming to show that it does exist, it is a problem and it most definitely is not OK. Twitter has finally accepted that trolling tweeters (AKA socially inept misogynistic cowards) are well, not very nice at all, and have introduced an in-tweet 'report abuse' button. (Erm, we knew that already, there is still a long way to go). Thanks to the tireless work of the fabulous Stella Creasy MP, who refused to ignore rape threats on Twitter, the abuse of women is firmly back in the media spotlight. In an age where Page 3 and the like is still disgustingly in existence (although a big kick in your nuts Nutz - the Co-Operative Group has threatened to ban you and other 'lads-mags' from sale in its 4,000 stores unless covered by sealed modesty bags ), fortunately we have women like Lucy-Anne Holmes who is working on the No More Page 3 campaign to get rid of this horribly outdated practice (Because Boobs aren't News). Hurrah for the transformative moments that are fighting against some of the most egregious forms of sexism.

But for now the day-to-day casual sexism and on-the-street nonsense continues. For some women, the hot weather brings more than alfresco dining and copious jugs of Pimms. A recent post on Spotted Walthamstow, a facebook page for rants, thanks and questions said 'Dear idiots of E17, I am not wearing shorts for your ogling/leering benefit or because I am a tart. I am wearing shorts BECAUSE IT IS HOT' and the comments from both men and women were mixed but most utterly naffed off at being jeered simply for trying to avoid heat exhaustion and wear our lovely new sandals.Maybe for writing this post, I will be dismissed for being a hysterical female making a big old hoo-ha about nothing. It is harmless! Oh get over yourselves, it is just staring. Its part of the male's inner instinct to admire the female form. We cannot be blamed or restrained. Besides, if you will insist on wearing clothing that displays your forearms and a smidge of elbow then surely that's asking for attention?

I totally disagree. Being leched, jeered or perved at can make the most tenacious of us ladies feel a bit vulnerable. It gets right under your skin and leaves you wanting to scream, shout, or run and hide. It is bloody embarrassing and makes you furious, but it is also a little bit frightening when there's absolutely no one else around and the death-stare dirty look that you have mastered after all those years of silliness from boys just isn't working, and what if they do more than just jeer? We simply shouldn't have to tolerate it.

Ladies, may your choice of clothing be dictated only by the season, the weather and your inclination. Not by fear of attracting lecherous nonsense. It is not an invitation. It never will be.

Lech off.