arts + lit LGBTQ+ voices

Arts and Lit writers discuss their favourite LGBTQ+ artists and writers

Nan Goldin

UPON the release of the Oscar nominated documentary All the Beauty and the Bloodshed, many are being re-familiarised with the revolutionary photographer and activist Nan Goldin. An artist who broke the boundaries of the tragic mould her life was cast in, and made art out of her life generations before the modern era of commodification encroached upon creativity, she transgressed social boundaries and held up her community, and her practice, sacred to her way of life. Her work, life, and activism as part of P.A.I.N (Prescription Addiction Intervention Now) intersect across the six sections of the film. It is emotionally turbulent to say the least — I came out of the theatre with a sense of sadness, a gratefulness for the life I’ve been able to live, and a new perspective on the importance of having a place where you belong. Consistently being reminded of the rabid dog-to-the-bone capitalism which claws greedily at the fibre of art and life in the form of the Sackler family and their involvement in the ongoing opioid crisis, the slideshows of the underground/outcast communities reminds you of the comfort and safety when you are amongst the people you love, and the pain felt when you are cast aside, criminalised, and stigmatised, for being who you are. Part of the whirlwind is the suicide of Goldin’s sister, casting a dark shadow on her life, and painting a picture of a country and family at such a loss with itself, and so internally broken, it cannot help throwing up things which save it from dying. Metaphors aside, the film and work of Goldin has never been more relevant. Not only is it a reminder that we urgently need to fight against the institutions which afflict our right to live the lives we want, but it also reminds us that however hard life gets, life goes on.

Joshua Smith, Arts+ Lit Editor

Virginia Woolf Federico Garcia Lorca

VIRGINIA Woolf’s Orlando is not simply about, or featuring LGBTQ+ identity — the modernist novel is an act of queer love itself. Orlando satirises English history, chronicling the adventures of it protagonist across 400 years, changing from man to woman, experiencing Elizabeth politics through to the 19th century literary scene — all without ageing. The novel has been praised for its exploration of gender identity and sexuality, themes which preoccupied many of those in the Bloomsbury Group, Woolf’s circle of writers and artists. However, the novel was inspired too by Woolf’s relationship with fellow Bloomsbury member, Vita SackvilleWest. Woolf and Sackville-West met in 1922, embarking on a ten year relationship in which they produced some of their best works. Orlando was inspired by Vita, with references to her ancestry and travels, and including the dedication ‘Vita from Virginia’. Virginia even included photographs of Vita across the novel in different costumes relating to Orlando’s different personas. Virginia and Vita exchanged numerous letters and it is here that we get the most pertinent glimpse into their love story. Their letters are complicated, competitive and beautiful pieces of prose — insights into a real and genuine relationship between two women at a time when few were able to be open about their sexuality. Orlando can be viewed as an extended form of these letters; it is, in the words of Vita’s son, Nigel Nicholson “the longest and most charming love letter in literature.”

Amy Rushton, News Editor

FEDERICO García Lorca was tragically murdered by the Spanish Nationalist forces during the outbreak of the civil war there, just as he was making a literary name for himself. One of my favourite plays of his, La Casa de Bernarda Alba, is set around the time of the Spanish Civil War and follows the story of Bernarda who forces her five daughters to stay at home in mourning with her when their father passes away. It tracks their frustration of being sequestered at home, sexually repressed and generally bored. Unfortunately, it is a neat reflection of how women were treated before and during Franco’s dictatorship in Spain and now, in retrospect, also reflects Lorca’s own repression and poor treatment. Lorca was gay and was murdered partly for this and partly for his anti-nationalist literature. The tragic plot of La Casa de Bernarda Alba demonstrates Lorca’s own personal frustration at not being allowed to fully express who he was, hiding that part of himself from the world until much later in life. The parallels to the sisters of the play are obvious when Lorca’s other plays and poems are examined, as there is often a sense of subjugation present, as that would have been his own unfortunate reality too.

Gracie Moore, Lifestyle Editor