Kristen Stewart during Cannes 2014.
Pasadena, CA 13.09
Are you in Barcelona? Well if so you can not miss one of the most intense artistic experiences of the season presents the always great Michael Leal in the creative space ” Straight Fire “at number 26 of the Parliament street of Sant Antoni, of Barcelona. This time, the work of Leal, ” MAD FACE “is a project started two years ago and focuses on exposing the most beautiful side and darker at the same time human. The intimate and everyday they go out, and the naked body is mixed with the urban setting as posters, graffiti, collages and ink colors that form the secret language of the artist.
The majority of the women of the world have nothing to lose but their chains – the chains of capital and the chains of patriarchy. Whilst petty bourgeois feminism struggles for the accomodation of women in the capitalist-imperialist system, proletarian feminism struggles for the end of the system and the establishment of a classless society.
Under capitalism-imperialism, women form the majority of part-time workers, the majority of single parents, and the majority of workers earning minimum wage. In imperialist wars of aggression, they are 80% of refugees and displaced people, and 80% of the victims of hand-held weapons. Women make up 83% of domestic workers, facing deplorable working conditions. Even in our daily lives, women have to endure physical as well as psychological violence. These are problems inherent in the capitalist system, and the struggle for women’s liberation is inseparable from the struggle against capitalism.
Proletarian feminism is the understanding that without the support, participation, and leadership of women, the success of communist revolution against capitalism is impossible. Only by fusing the struggle of the proletariat with the struggle of women and other oppressed groups can imperialism be defeated and the struggle for communism carried forward.
I can describe it as a pain in the head, some central point, a wound which, somehow, had always been there — something slowly and steadily deforming all hope in me; something that forces me to cling to the past and cling and cling — I cling to the blood, I cling to my own ache, I cling to the past and it gets to a point when I can’t even remember without hurting. I do feed off it, do you understand? It’s not the disease anymore, Anne, it is me, I’m telling you it is me! I blindly follow it because I want to know it and it drives me inward, each time all the most inward, and yet I can only use abstract terms to refer to it and then I get mad at myself. Or I am mad. Probably both. Anne, I am not a loser and I am not weak and I have been battling this ever since I can remember myself. And every single time I try to describe it to someone I love, I only end up sounding like a self-centered asshole who is so damn arrogant in her pain. And then I cannot describe it — I fail, I always fail so forgive me […]