Dirty Looks: 8 Years On is a queer short film program curated by Bradford Nordeen that, according to the Facebook event, “reassesses the past through a fiercely queer and politicized lens, [asking] ‘who brought us here?’ and ‘where are we now?’” The program is a collection of queer visual subjectivities, dating from 1966 to 2017, and sheds light on the ways in which the LGBTQ+ communities have articulated their identities over time. Nordeen introduced the event as a time-based exhibition designed to “illuminate queer histories and liminal spaces” through film. He also highlighted the importance of hosting Dirty Looks screenings in an informal setting in order to make these histories accessible to the general public.

The screen was illuminated with the image of the first short called Amphetamine, a dizzying portrayal of a drug-fueled sex gathering in the 1960s. Many of the films use vertigo-inducing camerawork, which gives the impression of an unfiltered perspective. One of the other films that stuck out was Frenzy. Reconstructed from Super 8 film camera negatives, the 1993 short depicts a concert by a Riot Grrrl band, where a lustful crowd takes turns performing oral sex on the lead singer.

Unfettered demonstrations of queerness remain inaccessible to individuals who are actively persecuted for their identities.

The compilation of films had an overarchingly raw, unfettered, and political aesthetic. The filmmakers took a clear approach in defining queer societies by emphasizing the elements of their identities that are most often persecuted and used as a tool to justify oppression. These elements include open AIDS discourse, extravagant dress, and explicit sexuality. Open displays of these parts of queerness is the first step to reclaiming them. In this way, we not only accept but also celebrate, queer culture. Expressly and unapologetically queer events like Dirty Looks both highlight traditionally-uncharted queer media, and unite communities via shared resolve. While Dirty Looks is a necessary platform in this way, there are other realities of queer life that are neglected and under-represented. However, overemphasis on certain aspects of queerness can also be a source of pressure on queer individuals. Drug consumption and erotic transgressions are a lived reality for many queer folks, and honest representations of this aspect of queer life is important. Nevertheless, Dirty Looks by and large depicted this reality to the exclusion of other parts of queer life. Pressures around failing to uphold this standard can lead to feelings of ostracization from the community, causing some to try to ‘prove’ their queerness in accordance with standards they cannot relate to.

Discussions of queer exclusion could also be extended further to encompass racial and colonial power dynamics. For instance, why were most of the films’ actors white? Why were the soundtracks exclusively English and Western in sound and style? Why were the films only in English? Could these observations reflect the ways in which queer pop culture has been constructed in line with overarching political interests? Representations are shaped by what larger systemic structures allow, and the shorts prompted important reflection on the broader frameworks of power in which LGBTQ+ communities are situated and operate. In this sense, what type of politicization are the Dirty Looks films articulating?

The filmmakers took a clear approach in defining queer societies by emphasizing the elements of their identities that are most often persecuted and used as a tool to justify oppression.

I commend Nordeen for making the decision to host Dirty Looks screenings in social spaces such as bars and restaurants. However, it must also be acknowledged that unfettered demonstrations of queerness remain inaccessible to individuals who are actively persecuted for their identities. Queer spaces that that inadvertently uphold this dynamic further the exclusionary practices the LGBTQ+ community aims to fight.

Although Dirty Looks is valuable in giving a platform to the queer community to express often ostracized parts of their identity, the representation it proposes is not all-encompassing. There are queer voices who do not identify with common depictions of queerness, often due to the complexities of their intersecting identities that they cannot see represented onscreen. Nordeen’s, ‘fiercely queer’ compilation of films should be reframed as a portrayal of a specific form of queerness, rather than a general mode of LGBTQ+ unification. Perhaps then the screenings would truly work to “undermine history,” as the event promised.

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On May 4th of 2018, I was reminded of our home, alone, in the audience of a spoken word piece, entitled “Angels of the Get-Through.”

Andrea Gibson, a queer Maine-born slam-poet, spoke to a small audience at Bar le Ritz. I listened to Gibson’s piece, written for their best friend, their face illuminated by the soft glowing string lights draped from the ceiling. “This has been the hardest year of your life,” they said.

My eyes filled with tears. I remembered when you answered my anxious phone call in the middle of the night, your few words housing me in reassurance.

“Best friend, Angel of the Get-Through…,” they said.

In response, I heard deep sighs all around me, as the audience fixated on Gibson’s homily on the importance of friendship. Looking to my right, I saw a young woman clutching at her heart, tears streaming down her face. I think of you, and the home we built, its wood panels waiting to catch me when I am so close to falling.

“You caught every tantrum I threw
With your bare hands
Chucked it back at that blood moon.”

As Gibson uttered these words, I remembered the times when my heart pounded so hard that I felt my mind was on the verge of implosion; when my body shook with sadness and rage to the point of nervous collapse; when my emotional short-sightedness seemed to stunt my ability to find hope beyond turmoil. With your bare hands, you picked up the pieces of my chaos. Holding me tight in your arms, not taking a second to consider how this time might perhaps infringe on your state of being. I throw myself at you with full force, and you are the cushion to downfall. A best friend is a warm, comforting buffer against the blunt, harsh externalities of the outside world. Often, you were just what I needed when mental illness threw me head-first into a seemingly never-ending universe, in which I feel defenseless, vulnerably exposed to outside weather. You are the walls that protect me from the harsh outdoors.

“You keep worrying you’re taking up too much space.
I wish you’d let yourself be the whole milky way.”

My mental illness makes me feel as if the world has no space for me. I always wondered why I couldn’t believe my parents when at my high school graduation they said they were proud of me. I doubted how I could have possibly earned the right to their pride. Mental illness is the nervous laugh upon being complimented by my coworkers, critical stares in the mirror when getting ready in the morning, and constantly telling myself that I am less worthy than my little sister. You remind me that the world has room for me, in a world where I am always cautioned to not take up more space than our male counterparts. You remind me that it is okay to break down, and that I am allowed to make my sadness be known to the world.

“You will never push me away,” you repeat over and over. I don’t believe you, and often put up a strong fight, but you stand rooted in your kind conviction. You are patient with my resistance, letting it wash over you as it comes in crashing waves. My depression sends my mind rippling, like movements in the middle of the ocean. I hate to swim alone, so you wade with me in the blue of the water, constantly affirming my worth both to you and the world.

“Best friend, this is what we do
We gather each other up
We say, the cup is half yours, half mine.
We say alone is the last place you will ever be.”

There is great comfort in feeling that the heavy weight of your trauma doesn’t fall entirely on your shoulders. When I told you no one could love me the way others love themselves, you held my hand. It is in moments like these that I feel the gravity of your compassion. Best friend, you are my lifeboat, ready to catch anything the water that overflows from my conscience. I feel safe knowing that my innermost struggles are protected by your roof, and that our rooms know the walls of my chaos. We are grounded by a shared understanding that we will never abandon one another. You take my hands in yours and tell me that I will never be alone. In my world, where I must attend a tumult of appointments, constantly fight with healthcare professionals, remember to take my antidepressants, and pretend that everything is fine, I am grateful that you stand with me, in solidarity. Your silent presence is worth a thousand words when it feels like the entire world is against me.

Finishing with a rendition of “Stand by me,” Gibson united their audience through the power of shared experience. Gibson’s words provide a gentle comfort, reminding us of things that we know so deeply to be true. They provide a reassuring picture of what we can accomplish, and what we can be with the help of a friend. The shelter of a good friend can mean the difference between life and death. Solace does not lay only in the sterile alienation of our institutionalized mental healthcare system. Intimate solidarity in a world that makes women feel inadequate in the face of mental healthcare providers are a human right. Everyone deserves the chance to swim alone in their own ocean.

This is to my ‘Angel of the Get-Through.’ Thank you for making me feel like life is worth living.

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