Sick of all the writing talk yet?

Yeah, me too, a little bit.

What’s left then? Well, let’s see, I was in a minor car accident yesterday. We’re all fine, thank heavens, but the car is being towed away today to get fixed because it is undriveable (luckily I was able to get it home, as the accident only happened a block away).

Which leaves me all flustered, emotionally charged and vulnerable.

So when stories like these hit the headlines, they really capture my attention - for possibly all the wrong reasons. Or the right ones. It depends on your viewpoint.

In a nutshell: a mother - an artist - takes nude shots of her six year old five years ago. These are now featured in a (tax funded) art publication. The front cover is a nude shot of the girl.

I was busy when the Bill Henson debate came out to properly formulate an opinion on the subject (thought I read many on both sides of the debate). This new controversy has kind of struck a nerve with me because it raises all these questions of what is morally acceptable when it comes to representations of very young childhood in the art world. Or in any world, really. Is it pornography? Is this family (the father is an art critic) exploiting the child?

This accusation has been pointed to many a ‘mommy/parent’ blogger - not so much in Australia, but elsewhere. I’ve read many bloggers who are charged with exploitation because they dare to tell stories about their child, post their pictures without worrying about or considering that some sort of consent would be first needed; and they’ve reacted with all the defensive indignation as you could expect.

So if this media spotlight were to shine on parent blogs here in Australia, right now, where many shots can be found of the adorably nude antics our children get up to and we, as the adoring parent, can’t help but post to boast, would we escape without charge or accusation? Would it matter if your blog was monetised or not? For surely if it was (ummm…like mine) then the prosecution could build a tidy case.

I suppose it comes down to a question of aesthetics. At what point does a photograph - any photograph - cross the line from something without significant depth or imposed meaning to one that does? Surely, if you’ve seen the front cover in question, the subject has been formally modelled into a specific pose. A pose, frankly (I feel) better suited to a female 15-20 years that girl’s senior. But do I condemn the shot?

I’m not sure.

Because if I do, am I damning the mother, or damning the artist? Do I even differentiate between the two?

Do I want to?

Normally, no.

******

Yet. Yet… 

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This has all happened the same week I found my son’s picture linked to from an adult German site dedicated to children in various forms of dress-ups. (I’ve since removed the post because the clickovers were just getting ridiculous. It was where he was in Keira’s ballerina outfit.)

Yep.

I’m about as pleased to report this as you’d guess me to be. So now, whenever I upload something to Flickr I have to ask myself a self-censoring question: “Can this be taken and misappropriated?”

Something I have all along, I stress. It’s just now, I will so even more.

I love my children; I’m sure that artist loves her girl. It’s a question of context and interpretation. It’s a whole lot of questions.

Am I drawing a link where there is none? Are any of you feeling slightly squeemish about this story?

No, not this

I read the other day that Brad Pitt’s new tattoo (and I think it’s the above one) was drawn first upon his back by Angelina, and that they liked it so much, they converted it into permanent form.

Lucky she drew something so…abstract, then.

If I’d let my husband near my back with a marker in his hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if I looked into the mirror to see somehing hideously high-school (probably something involving a penis) there, or the words THIS IZ MINE.

But, I like this drawing of my daughter’s so much, this is what I’d probably turn into a transfer and then put on my back.

If I ever was to get a tattoo. Which I won’t.

Because I am a tad cowardly.

I have not loved well this week. Not well, nor hard. Or right, I feel.

My temper is short and all attention has been channelled towards completing THE BOOK. This project, hereafter referred to in metaphoric form as ‘The War’, has been won through long, concerted battles and my children have been the innocent victims; asking no more from their mother (no less, either) than usual, they have been forced to listen to my restrained patience, barked orders and swallow uninspiredly prepared food.

Pdfs of the book have constantly been up on the computer monitor as I search for last minute problems or typos (and there were a few - Meine Gott) and my requests of, “Well, hey, if you won’t leave me alone how’s about I read you a story?”

Keira holds out a library book. “This one.”

I jab my finger at the screen. “No, this one. I have to keep checking it.”

“I want to go for a drive somewhere.”

“I just can’t right now. I have to think.”

“But I want - - ”

It’s usually at this point my voice raises a few decibels, I cut her short, and I cry a little inside when I see her face fight between the injustice of these repeatedly denied requests and confusion over what the hell’s going on?

As of today, this is over. As of yesterday, at 11.30am the files were Express posted and as at 8pm last night when they were uploaded via ftp to Singapore.

The book is done. The book is done.

This is where it ends, and begins.

And frankly I feel too tired at the moment to begin the next war.

The casualties in this one have been bad enough.