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The androgynous doll tempted by anorexia
24/01/2011 By 3 Comments
I think it happened in winter, in January, in this strange city where I lived every night in my realistic dreams.
A few dozen meters from the Akanian tower, a small Parisian café had imposed it’s tables and crowd, amongst whom I easily recognized Flower Doll with her cape of white petals, the Ragdoll cat, playing Lolita behind her huge dark glasses, hiding those round blue eyes, too blue, so deep.
Seated below, I identified without hesitation, despite her new falling beret, also white, Little Akan, concerned about the beauty of her skin, which was protected from the sun with her new immaculate hat.
She also wore large dark glasses to avoid the assault of UV on the outline of her huge eyes.
Syndra Raynaud, “the amputated hand”, was smoking an American vanilla flavoured cigarette, her long fingers stretched languidly, leaning against the arm of the little Akan.
She seemed to have forgotten her “owner”, the doll thief amputated by Iranian militia.
That she had still not shown the tip of her arm.
Betsy Mac Call alone failed to “rendez-vous” on the terrace; immensely tired, she had fallen asleep on the 32nd floor of the tower, after running some 40 km the day before for: “The anorexic Paper Doll Charity ‘.
- “Crikey!” Cried the flower doll (usually dumb and blind), watching the arrival of a hesitant creature deliciously chiseled on the other side of Avenue A.
- “She is naked, her head is bare. So thin and so beautiful!”
“The androgynous Doll”. Self-portrait 1984. Alice Odilon copyright.
“Her breasts are almost non-existent; pointed like sand dunes”, muttered a man sitting next to a jealous pinup.
“She is so white, so long, so tense!”
Continued an ugly young woman with blotchy skin and short brown hair, sitting at a table nearby.
- “What a special way of walking! What naive elegance!”
Dazed, Syndra Raynaud’s fingers stretched towards the sky.
“Look! Her icy eyes turned up, as if this doll of indeterminate sex had experienced a sexual orgasm”.
Added the severed hand, suddenly animated by an all invasive excitement.
- “She seems hungry, from afar I see her hunger, and her denial of hunger to be beautiful, independent, and rebellious.”
Cried the Rag doll cat sitting next to Flower doll.
- “It seems she wants to escape her shadow.”
- “What strange concern can be read on her face!”
- “Yes, she seems terrified by something which cannot be seen, which can’t be told!” added an alert Akan.
- “Those transparent eyes, it’s terribly disturbing!” purred the cat!
- “Such confusion in her transparent gaze, such a disappointment! What a poor doll!” Exclaimed the waiter, pale with fatigue.
The hesitant creature approached quietly with a broken gait like a puppet.
The rigidity of her limbs prevented a smooth movement and resulted in jerky rhythms, surprising, disturbing and yet at the same time very attractive.
No one could take their eyes off this doll stiffened and annihilated by the absence of any identity.
It was nice to see that she belonged neither to the masculine gender, by the way she carried her head and the smoothness of her skin mottled with cold, or by the length of her black lashes caressing the light of night, nor by the feminine gender with her allure of a teenage boy.
Akan imagined her as the leftover of some pleasure, prostitute, frustrated transsexual, slave god offered to violence and dejection of a fat community of power and lies.
Her body seemed that of Apollo emaciated by the desire to be a woman.
This appearance, terribly childlike and lost like a prostitute or doll, sometimes disappeared into the light, if one considered her arm and the acute angulation of her legs.
Nothing like a woman, rather a young man and yet neither one nor the other!
A thin young woman exposed to all for sale!
Tattooed, burnt by cigarettes, an androgen with all body hair removed for the scene and enjoyment of the Illuminati.
(The object of the hidden desires of these gentlemen of power, concealing their indomitable homosexual and predatory impulses.)
- A castrated angel like a lost, dirty, vagrant fairy.
Virility and vulnerability combined with the forces projecting from her skin so close to the bone.
Her thinness was no more; her skeleton was all, her attitude replaced her missing flesh.
At the same time, this lack of everything, inspired a savage sexuality to anyone who was looking: a fantasy of rape, of chains, of slaps and final possession of this body devoid of possessions.
She looked so embarrassed to live her character, this aristocratic carcass.
Blinded by fear, she felt suddenly stared at by these people gathered together on the terraces.
She gave a vitreous glance, opalescent and clear, cruel and tender at the same time.
As if to say: “I want to disappear but I want to be subjected to your criminal desire to rape me.”
Her brilliant ‘self’ took refuge in her magnificent eyes, that were impossibly beautiful , and her erectile skeleton, which would eventually fall to ashes.
Akan was eager to invite her to sit among her friends.
But was it humane to ask someone who was so hungry to join those who live?
Alice ODILON/ translated with help from David. January 2011.
If Akan becomes “object a”, she will die
21/09/2010 By Leave a Comment
Akan a buté sur une citation de Jacques Lacan, issue du Séminaire X: “L’amour consiste à offrir quelque chose qu’on n’a pas à quelqu’un qui n’en veut pas.”
Maintenant elle s’interroge : “ai-je connu cette échange unique avec quelqu’un?”
Oui, elle l’a connu quelques secondes, dans un village de France, perdu dans le sud.
Elle venait de quitter en pleurs son analyste, elle était désespérée, le néant l’avalait, elle ne comprenait plus sa vie.
Lui, il l’a rattrapée en bas dans la rue, en prétextant aller chercher des cigarettes au tabac, il l’a regardée quelques secondes pour l’atteindre, et elle a sentie si fort ce regard d’amour.
Elle l’a refusé sans savoir, par instinct auto-destructeur, elle s’est refermée sur elle, sur rien.
Elle savait qu’il ne pouvait pas lui donner ce qu’il donnait déjà à quelqu’un d’autre, elle le savait, elle ne pouvait que refuser de connaître cette couleur amère amoureux.
Il eût été question de passion en place de l’amour.
Et cela lui semblait trop enivrant.
(Sur cette photo c’est autre chose: Akan les a photographiés à Lisbonne/airport, lui il ne l’aimait plus, et elle demandait son amour.
Elle lui donnait tout sauf ce qu’il attendait, et lui ne voulait pas de cette demande là.)
Alors la maigre Akan se penche sur son enfance et cherche des traces d’ amour.
Akan a été la fille de Andrée , la mère affamante.
{Quand l’Autre rabat l’amour au niveau du besoin, dit Lacan, il est étouffant.}
{Quand l’Autre « confond ses soins avec le don de son amour », quand l’Autre, à la place de donner ce qu’il n’a pas – ce qui est la définition de l’amour –} ne donne que la nourriture inerte.
Quand l’Autre, donc, à la place de donner ce qu’il n’a pas « gave Akan de la bouillie étouffante », alors Akan a refusé de satisfaire à la demande de Andrée : « Akan gavée de bouillie-leurre d’amour, a refusé la nourriture et a joué de son refus comme d’un désir de rien, d’un rien fécond, avec une charge potentielle positive.
Elle arrache son propre coeur de son corps, pour mieux voir et vivre.
“Oculaire Cardiaque”. Copyright Alice Odilon 2009.
Akan utilise son anorexie comme son signe identificatoire, vouant un culte au rien sacré.
Akan ne se représente pas, elle ne vit pas dans son corps, simplement dans ses yeux.
S’il fallait qu’un miroir la réfléchisse il montrerait une forme filiforme placardée d’un manteau plat sans profondeur ni intérieur.
L’image d’Akan dans le miroir est une housse en plastique, pas grand chose d’elle-même puisque tous les vêtements vitaux sont enfermés et rendus invisibles par le contenant à fermeture éclair.
Akan sert de porte-manteau en os, la seule structure capable de tenir tête au mauvais oeil de la mère méduse.
L’habit ne fait pas Akan.
“Anorexie”. {“Abercombrie and Fitch” picture.}
Le manteau spéculaire cache le ceintre maigre et habille la douleur.
Mais Akan se cache dans bien moins encore.
Akan se cache dans son regard, elle incarne l’objet regard.
La césure corporelle s’effectue par les yeux.
Le regard est le lieu où Akan “tient son moi et même son corps”. { Françoise Dolto : l’enfant du miroir}.
Çà vit uniquement dans son regard.
Les yeux sont le sanctuaire de vie de Akan. Ils ne se représentent pas, ils voient.
Akan est l’objet regard dont la présence meurtrie.
Son regard tue.
Alice Odilon. 21 septembre 2010.
Akan stumbled over a quotation of Jacques Lacan, in Seminary X: “ Love consists in giving something that other one doesn’t have to somebody else who does not want it ”.
Now she asks herself: “ did I knew this sort of unique exchange with anybody ?”
Yes, she knew it, once a time, for some seconds, in a village of France, lost in the south.
She had there just left her analyst, she was despaired, she didn’t understood her life anymore.
The analyst caught her in the street below, by using as an excuse going to buy cigarettes in tobacco, he looked at her to attain her, and she felt so very much this look of love.
She refused it without knowing how to accept what she wanted so much, by auto-destructive instinct, she closed again on her, on nothing.
She knew that he could not give her what he has already given to somebody else, she knew it, she could only refuse to know this pain of loving failure.
It would have been question of live passion instead of love.
And it seemed forbidden for them.
Then thin Akan remembers her childhood and searches traces of love.
Akan was the daughter of Andrée, the “starvation” mother.
{When Other one pulls down love at the level of the need, says Lacan, he is oppressive}.
{When Other one « merges its care with the donation of its love », when Other one, gives dead food instead to give what he does not have – what is the definition of love– he is an abuser}.
When Other one, therefore, to give what it does not have « force-feeds Akan with the oppressive gruel », then Akan refuses to meet at the request of Andrée: « Akan force-fed with gruel – decoy of love- , refuses the food and plays her refusal as a wish of nothing, a fecund nothing, with a positive potential load.
She tears off her own heart of her body, to see better and live.
“Le temps du coeur”.Copyright Alice Odilon 2009.
Akan has in fact no identity, only the one to be anorexic, toxicomane of the nothing.
Akan cannot be represented by herself, she doesn’t see her real self, because it’s not shown in the mirror.
If it was possible that a mirror reflects it, it would show a spindly form posted by a superficial flat topcoat nor an inside.
Akan appears as a ghost in the mirror, she is completely picked up by this specular picture, that means her emptiness, as her weak vital inside stays invisible in the mirror.
Akan is the coat rack in bones, the only structure able of standing up to the bad eye of the killer mother.
The specular coat does not make Akan.
It hides the thin Akan and dresses pain.
The bodily caesura is made by eyes.
“Le Marquis”. Self-portrait Alice Odilon 1984. All rights reserved.
Look is the place where Akan ” holds her self and even her body “. {Françoise Dolto: the child of the mirror}.
Life stays only in her look.
Eyes are the shrine of life of Akan.
They’re not visible, but they see.
Akan is the object “look” of which presence hurts.
Her eyes kill.
Alice Odilon.
September 21st, 2010.
Akan is back
15/09/2010 By 2 Comments
Akan reprend le flambeau: sauver les femmes et les enfants.
After long weeks of fight against censure and intolerance, Akan, Antablog’s daughter, is coming back, stronger than before, much more motivated to tell about anorexia and Art.
That was a very rude summer for Akan: she thought she was losing Antablog threatened to be deleted by Bluehost because pornographic content.
A sort of nightmare!
Files have been deleted by Bluehost without any consideration and respect of copyright and ownership rights.
Thanks to Sol, Akan’s husband, who wrote immediately to the Better Business Bureau’s Online Complaint System: BBB of Utah.
His complaint was successful reviewed by a specialist at the BBB and then forwarded to Bluehost for their response.
To avoid another very bad publicity, Bluehost was constrained to leave access to Antablog’s database for its transfer to Jushost.
Then Akan retrieved for 48hours access to her files and databases, in order to transfer her websites.
Antablog intellectual property was safe.
So It was a excellent lesson for Akan, anorexic artist, working for women rights, against child abuse, crime wars, runaway persons rights, street workers rights, that she had to choose carefully her web host in order to be not hunted and banished as a witch on the blacklist.
Writing about anorexia and photography, shooting nudity, has nothing to do with pornography, but involves social-political contents which can be easily hidden and shut up by phallocratic, hegemonic, talibanic, capitalist, unilateral power.
And Akan knows that anorexia detains a subversive content, which she wants to analyze to raise untold words of anorexic women.
Alice Odilon. 15 Septembre 2010.
L’hirondelle volée
03/07/2010 By Leave a Comment
Il doit être 1 heure de l’après-midi, et une chaleur encombrante monte dans la rue où nos deux personnages entament un long débat.
- Vous marchez trop vite! si vous voulez parler, ralentissez!
Votre rythme délibérément accéléré me fatigue!
S’écrie la jeune fille suivant le pas furtif de Akan déjà quelques mètres devant elle.
- Oh! excusez moi, j’aime tant aller vite, engager la voie, m’élever presque du sol.
“Elle s’élève”.Copyright Alice ODILON 2010
Je ne me rends pas compte, je vais comme l’oiseau.
C’est joli votre tatouage à l’intérieur de votre bras gauche!
C’est étrange; ces hirondelles naturalistes, s’imprègnent en vous comme une plaie bleue marine.
- Vraiment trop long à cicatriser, cela met du temps à se faire oublier.
- Et quel est le sens de ce logo au centre du tatouage?
- Personnel, cela ne vous regarde pas.
- Excusez moi encore de mon indiscrétion.
C’est que j’aime les hirondelles, voyez-vous?
Les martinets m’ont sifflé le secret de la liberté, grâce à leurs cris, leur vol périlleux rasant les murs de l’enceinte ténébreuse contrôlée par ma mère, j’ai pu tenir dans la nuit, alors qu’il faisait encore jour en ces étés superbes.
Les hirondelles m’avertissaient de ce qui métait possible encore de tenter pour m’échapper de l’emprise.
Dans les moments les plus noirs, quand j’étais seule dans mon lit loin du monde, j’entendais leurs cris, et c’était tout.
- Pourquoi me dites vous ces choses? Cela ne me concerne pas et ne me touche pas.
- Peut-être bien. Elles sont tellement importantes pour moi.
Vous savez quand je suis devenue femme, je pensais toujours aux hirondelles.
Un jour, à Paris, rue de la Paix, une lumière blanche a captivé mon regard
dans une vitrine abondante d’un joaillier.
Sur un banc de velours bleu, étincelait une hirondelle en or blanc sertie de diamants.
Je suis entrée et je l’ai achetée sans réfléchir.
Je la voulais autour de mon cou, mais c’était une erreur, une hirondelle ne s’attache pas.
D’ailleurs elle s’est vite envolée, on me l’a volée peu de temps après.
“L’hirondelle s’envole après avoir été volée”. Copyright Alice ODILON 2010.
Je l’avais mise dans un coffret et je ne l’ai plus jamais retrouvée.
je l’ai cherchée longtemps, puis je me suis consolée de l’avoir perdue, car je ne l’avais pas oubliée.
- Ce n’est pas moi qui l’ai volée!
- Bien sûr que non! vous l’avez seulement dessinée et graver dans la chair de votre bras, mais une hirondelle ne se représente pas, un signe s’écrit, l’hirondelle s’écrit dans le ciel, ce n’est pas un dessin, elle
écrit sa vie, elle s’écrie de cette conscience acérée de la vie.
Dessiner une hirondelle sonne comme un non sens. voyez-vous?
- Non je ne vois pas, je veux que vous voyez mon tatouage, que vous me regardiez et que vous me trouviez belle.
Ce tatouage m’est désormais attitré, ces foutus oiseaux indélébiles crèvent dans mon épiderme, je dois faire avec, et vos histoires je m’en fous.
Elles ne peuvent plus bouger maintenant, ni elle, ni vous, vous entendez?
je n’ai rien demandé aux hirondelles si ce n’est qu’elles se taisent à jamais dans ma peau.
Que le ciel devienne ma peau partout, pour elle, pour cette mère que je déteste!
Que ma chair avale les hirondelles et ma mère!
Et maintenant poussez-vous, partez! que je vous oublie aussi fort que le coeur!
- Alors, Adieu, répondit Akan, mystérieuse et libre.
Alice ODILON. Copyright 3/7/2010
It must be 1:00 pm , and a cumbersome heat goes up in the street where our two characters start a long debate.
- You walk too quickly! if you want to speak, slow down!
Your deliberately accelerated rhythm tires me!
Exclaims the young girl according to the furtive step of Akan already a few meters in front of her.
- Oh! excuse me, I like so much to go quickly, engage the way, take of almost.
- I do not realize, I go my way like a bird.
That’ a nice tattoo you’ve got on the inside of your left arm!
That’s strange; these naturalist swallows, impregnate your skin like a marine blue wound.
- Really too long to heal, it takes to much time to made me forget it.
- And what does mean this logo in the center of the tattoo?
- Private. It’s not your business.
- Again Please accept my apologises for my indiscretion.
That’s because I love swallows, you see?
The swifts whistled to me the secrecy of freedom.
Thanks to their cries, thanks to their perilous flight shaving the walls, – the dark enclosure of my mother – I could stay in the dark, during these nights of Summer.
The swallows informed me what was still possible to try for me to escape from the morbid hold of my mother.
In the blackest moments, when I was obliged to go to bed far from the world, I heard their cries, and that was it.
- Why are you letting me know all these things?
That does not relate to me and does not touch me.
- Perhaps well. They are so important for me.
You know when I became woman, I always thought of the swallows.
One day, in Paris, Rue de la paix, a white light captivated my glance in an abundant window of a jeweller.
On a blue velvet bench, was glittering a swallow in white gold crimped of diamonds.
I entered and I bought it without any doubt.
I wanted it around my neck; but it was an error, a swallow cannot live captive.
Although it was quickly flown away: it was stolen next year after.
I had put it in a box and l never found it again.
I had sought it for a long time, then I comforted myself with the dead thought I had lost it.
But I have never forgotten it.
- I didn’t stole it!
- Of course not! You only drew and engrave it in the flesh of your arm,
but a swallow cannot be drawn, a sign writes itself, a swallow writes itself in the sky, this is not a drawing, it writes its own life, with its sharp-edged conscience of life.
To draw a swallow sounds like no sense. Do you understand?
- No I don’t see what you mean, the only thing I want is that you would admire my tattoo, that you look at me and that you find me amazing.
This tattoo is me, these bloody indelible birds die in my skin, I must deal with them by now.
They cannot move any more now, neither them, nor you, you listen?
I only asked the swallows they would keep silent forever in my skin.
Let the sky become my skin everywhere, Let my flesh swallow the swallows and my mother!
And now get away, leave!
I want forget you!
- Then, Good-bye, answered Akan, mysterious and free.
Alice ODILON
Antagallery
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wdvh.org.uk
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