R.B. O'Brien's Blog, page 10

Writing and exploring some of our darker thoughts and desires can often free us

​Yet another judgmental and arrogant person I've dealt with. Seems these last few weeks are filled with them, and I have no idea why! What is it about sensual images and the writing of erotic stories that can really get people’s knickers in a bunch? I addressed this last week with the word "erotic" and no sooner did I get into it with another on Twitter. This pompous know-it-all actually took one of my graphics and changed it. Now that takes effort! Would you like to see? I've attached it at the end if you do. 

I engaged with him, rather than simply block or lash out. Hell, I figured, at least I’m getting some interaction about my writing, right?  And it slowly turned into the “I have a degree in English lit…and…” Yeah? So do I, buddy. But I didn’t go there.

He wrote: “Usually if has anyone (sic) of either gender on the cover half naked, or uses the word Billionaire in the blurb, (or has a sword), I flick past it.” Okay. He is entitled to his opinion. But I did my own kind of flicking too (it may or may not have been with my middle finger!). Talk about judging a book by its cover. No mention of swords or billionaires in my blurb (not capitalized either, Mr. English major FYI), but yes, Natalie is en pointe ‘half naked.’ Oh my god. The gall, huh? Sadly, he is not alone in his view as Amazon agrees, because Temptation was put into the “jail” ages ago and my publisher hasn’t fixed it, because, well, if they do, I’ll lose all my reviews supposedly. This closed-minded way of thinking is getting old. And tiresome.

When he started to insult the Bard, and that he “never re-reads a book” (What????), I knew it was a useless, one-sided conversation, that I was dealing with a very bored man, an unhappy one I’m sure. He hadn’t read my work, and I realized he wasn’t going to. That somehow because I explore the sensual and erotic in my writing, I’m lesser. I espoused that it’s really sad that such judgments and repression run rampant so strongly and that I find it disturbing. The question that still lingers for me more than anything though, is why he felt the need to go out of his way to engage and further, rework a graphic of mine. Buddy—you need to have more sex. Clearly. And therein lies the crux of the problem. I'm convinced of it!

Natalie’s Edge is about the journey of discovering our true selves, including our sexual ones. The world of repression is very real, and for some of us, our writing is the only safe place we are allowed to express it. Writing that series was quite cathartic for me. And no one can take away its profound importance to my journey not only as a writer but as a human being who breathes and lives one day at a time.

Darkness can consume an individual, swallow up the light, an unhappiness that doesn’t make much sense when that person seems to have everything. And we must reckon that or wither. Writing and exploring some of our darker thoughts and desires can often free us. Sometimes, it’s even therapy for conquering depression. And sometimes, we don’t even know until we let our subconscious roam free on the blank pages soon filled with so much of our truth, we only then can start to live. To deny sensuality is repressed, archaic nonsense. ​I grew up with the Catholic idea that sex is bad, so I know a thing or two about repression. I keep thinking we’re making progress. But we really aren’t. I won’t get into my political views here. But it’s quite apparent. And I ask why…just why does expressing oneself and embracing all facets of our beings get minimized to a sound byte of “porn”? My work is not “porn.” It is about relationships and romance, exploration, and submitting to visceral desires, through the written word to elicit emotion. My work is about love and acceptance. And I pity those that choose to ignore and suppress a vibrant and important part of living… If someone wants to roam about half a man, to him I simply say: I actually feel bad for you. I know. I've been there.

Why Do Some People Think "Erotic" is a Four-Letter Word?

Eroticism is a quality that causes sexual feelings, as well as a philosophical contemplation concerning the aesthetics of sexual desire, sensuality and romantic love... I call myself an erotic romance author. I call myself a lot of things. Just look at my bio! I'm a blogger, a poet, a writer, a dancer...and in all of it, I see the erotic, the sensual. When someone tells me they don't like "erotic" writing, I wonder what they mean exactly. My first reaction is to scream: "What? Should I check your pulse? Are you alive? Are you breathing?" Because for me, the erotic is as natural as drinking water. Sometimes we sip it. Sometimes we gulp it. Sometimes we devour it. And yes, sometimes we can choke on it. Without it, I doubt a person is truly living life fully if they can't find beauty in the eroticism of being a human being with needs and desires that are basic and instinctual. Why deny ourselves who we are? 

What I realize is that those who say they don't like THAT kind of writing (and it happens to me ALL THE TIME and do so yesterday), is that they must be thinking of something I am not at all thinking about, i.e. we are not on the same page in the Merriam-Webster dictionary. To be human, we are sexual. And things in the world around us are beautifully erotic. I think we've been taught that embracing the erotic is bad for some reason. If you don't have erotic impulses, forgive me, I feel bad for you. It may be time to go see your doctor. 
And sex is only one part of it. Some sex, frankly, isn't even all that erotic at all. So, I'm certain my definition must be different. A painting can be erotic. Beautiful photography can be. Love-making and sex can be. Dancing, yes, can be. And writing, to me, without any sense of eroticism, is done-right dull. I am hard-pressed to think of any novels I adored once I passed puberty that don't have elements of eroticism in it, not romance, eroticism. I mean that.

"Erotic" is not a four-letter word that needs to be chopped up on some uptight, sanitized cutting board. We read for the human condition. Life is messy. Life isn't linear. Life isn't black and white. And without eroticism in our lives, we are not whole. We feel lost. Alone. Maybe even depressed. Love and lust and sex is all part of living fully; it is all part of feeling, discovering, and exploring the truth of who we are. For every Christian who blames Eve and temptation, I'd bet a million dollars she'd do it all over again. "I don't like erotic writing." Uh-huh. Sure. No, you just don't want anyone to know. And I used to live a life like that, hiding who I was.

I have no idea how we change the conversation. But when we do, I do hope it includes the erotic. After all, EROTIC is not a four-letter word but a six-letter one. ;) 

"All Animals Are Created Equal, but Some Animals Are More Equal Than Others"

As some of you may remember, I lost my cat not too long ago and hoped to get a new kitty. There are myriad shelters where I live, housed with many feral and unwanted cats especially, and so I sought to adopt one. In my journey, I was denied by one shelter for not having taken my cat to the vet enough. I often marveled at the superiority of my cat to my dog: He was independent, I never needed to bathe him, he only ate when he was hungry, and I didn’t have to worry about expensive “daycare” for him when I knew I’d be away for a while. In short, he enjoyed life and himself. He also loved the outdoors. He could sit outside for hours, rolling around in the sun, chasing birds, climbing trees…being a cat.

He was also the most lovable cat I’ve ever owned. Loud and from Puerto Rico, when he wanted attention, which was often, there was no earplug in the world that could block him out. He was a lap-cat and a lover and was uncharacteristically friendly and trusting. Replacing him is impossible I realize, but still, I want to give another a home.

After I got past the vet issue, it then came to signing a document that stated I would vow to only keep my new family member indoors. I have heard this before. And it is true. It’s dangerous out there for the small critters. But no. And I said so. Any cat who wishes to go outdoors will be allowed. If he/she wants to remain indoors, then so be that. I’ve had two cats in my past who destroyed doors trying to get to the great outdoors, their natural habitats and natural inclinations. I’m not going to deny an animal’s happiness just for the sake of prolonging his/her life. To me, that’s cruel. What “family” member is confined and imprisoned? We argued. And here I sit, still catless.

There are myriad unwanted felines. Some have heart issues. Some body deformities. Many possibly unable to trust. And here I am, ready to love one. I guess it comes down to whether we want to live a brilliant life, like a flower that blooms and dies too quickly, or live a life without color. And I couldn’t help but wonder if this woman treats all animals in this way. But of course not. When I arrived to discuss the adoption, she was putting away her lunch, filled with meat. And I found it absurd, because after all: “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” ~Orwell Painting by artist Paweł Kuczyński.
​Learn more by clicking the button below. More on Pawel Kuczyński

I fall for the romance of Star Wars every time, but in this case, the fall fell short: A Review of The Last Jedi

Today I finally share my review of Star Wars: The Last Jedi. I’ve been dragging my feet sharing this one. First, my mind won’t make herself up! Do any of you have that problem? Trust me, you probably don’t want to go out to dinner with me. I’m the can-I-please-just-have-one-more-minute kind of gal. Second, I’ve been holding off on my review until I felt the vast majority of people who were going to see it will have seen it and any “spoilers” I may have to include really won’t be spoilers at all.

OVERALL RATING:
If I had to give The Last Jedi a numbered rating, I’d have to give it 3.5/5 stars. It seems I may be in the minority here as I read other reviews, but it just didn’t work for me on a few rather important levels. It may be because I had high expectations. Shakespeare once wrote: “Expectation is the root of all heartache” and this is no exception.
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WHERE IT FELL SHORT:
Here’s why it didn’t live up to my expectations in a nutshell. Disney spent too much time on action, explosions, and cinema-filler when they should have focused more on what we all came to see: Relationships and character development, especially that of Rey and Kylo. Isn’t it why we couldn’t wait for it to come out? To have questions answered? To learn of Rey’s beginnings? To see more of Kylo’s background? Isn’t that what made the trailer so appealing? Would Kylo and Rey somehow come together as one?

Instead, we have a floating Leia, silly banter at times, an overdone Luke, and a new relationship between Rose and Fin blossoming, when more time should have been spent on the relationship between Kylo and Rey. Kylo Ren steals the show. Every. Time. Love him or hate him, he is this generation’s Darth Vader. Is he the same? Absolutely not. And that is part of his beauty. He is a completely different character. He ISN’T Darth Vader, and I wondered how they were going to accomplish making us care, making us want to know his story and him and NOT compare him to Darth Vader. We don’t, because he is supremely unique and different.  WHY I KEEP COMING BACK: (Beyond the great music of John Williams)
Kylo’s story is finally being uncovered as Luke showed us. And it keeps a certain lure. A certain mystery. When The Force Awakens revealed his face too quickly (I think it should have been revealed on the bridge at that critical moment), I was upset. I still compared him to Darth Vader then. I thought it was premature. Not “explosive” enough. But I have since changed my mind on that as well. He is just a person. Flawed. Confused. Dark. He wants to be his grandfather, but he isn’t. He is Kylo Ren. But for all his darkness, he has light that cannot be denied, even if dim at present. SPOILER ALERT: He chose not to press the button on his mother. It is a critical piece to understanding his story. And it is the proof that it’s there inside him.
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As a writer of dark, alpha men, this appeals to me and many of us. We want to see the darkness. It excites us. It stimulates us. But we want the light, the redemption. We want that moment of “there is still good in him.”

​And we want it to shine because of love. At the heart of it all, it’s about finding love. Romance. We absolutely do. Deny it all you want, but it IS the story—the story of light and dark. Not "vs." Note that. “And.” Because we all possess elements of both.  Star Wars, then, is much more about the “star-crossed lovers” twinkling “in their spheres” than it is about actual wars. It speaks to the light and dark in us all, hiding, buried even. It speaks to our romanticism. And it’s what truly sustains the story. And Disney, in their quest for greed, want to milk it, make movies, like Rogue One, to fill in gaps, drag it out. Don’t even get me started on Snoke. My. God. What a missed opportunity. Mark my words. If a filler movie is made to expand his character, I’m boycotting. I left the theatre on opening night disappointed and a bit deflated. I wanted answers. SPOILER: I wanted to know Rey’s parents. I wanted to understand the connection she and Kylo had and why. But it did leave me wanting more. And I will get my answers, damn you, Disney, because I’m hooked, and for that, I cannot fault them. A movie that you continue to think about, question, and find yourself hypothesizing scenarios for means it succeeded, at least on some level, and I want to put into writing my 2 possible theories, to have a record of it.

THEORIES:Obi Wan Kenobie is Rey’s father. It is not out of the realm of possibility as Obi had a love in the Clones Wars. As a Jedi it is forbidden, just as Anakin should not have fallen in love with Padme. Obi was not above romantic love, but he may have felt the need to hide it. Or perhaps he lover hid it from him. It would explain her special connection to the Force.Perhaps, like Anakin, she has no father. Perhaps she was formed by the Force itself, as Anakin was, which begs the question: Who then is her mother. Well—Leia of course. But that would rule out further romantic connections between Rey and Kylo, and I want that more than anything.

Mary Oliver's First Snow and My Love for It

Today I ponder the beauty of snow. How could I not? Its vibrant call is impossible to ignore today, its breath a roar against my window, a white tornado!

I hear so many people complain about the snow. When I travel, people ask how I could possibly live in New England or how I could possibly tolerate the harsh existence of snow. But I love it. It’s not harsh to me at all. But a beautiful reminder of life and all its quirks. It makes me pause. Think. Stay still. Even my mind takes the hint. It makes me feel giddy. Like a kid. I bring my hot cocoa to the window and simply sit and reminisce, watch the squirrels and birds, and yes, even a bunny this morning, before it got to be too much, share the seeds put out in my back yard.

It brings me back to days of school cancellations and snow igloos and King of the Mountain games in my childhood neighborhood and of course, pancake breakfasts my dad would make us. (I still live for banana pancakes to this day!). Perhaps it’s because my vocation allows me to remain a kid. A lot. That I still get the school cancellations. And I’m safe and don’t need to drive in it. That for this one moment in time, I’m not an adult with all the headaches that can accompany that responsibility, but instead, I’m still the girl in pigtails with the handmade hat and mittens, just waiting to build her next snowman.
 
Every first huge snowstorm, I think about Mary Oliver’s poem. I don’t believe in a traditional god, as I’ve said before. But my god! Beauty like this just does give me pause. And, as Oliver writes, “not a single answer can found,” I’ve revel in my belief in agnosticism, for the answers don’t matter right now. Just the moment as it appears before my very eyes that cannot be denied. And I leave it her with you as I stay still in my bundled-up sweater and watch the first snow from the safety of home.  ​FIRST SNOW
The snow
began here
this morning and all day
continued, its white
rhetoric everywhere
calling us back to why, how,
whence such beauty and what
the meaning; such
an oracular fever! flowing
past windows, an energy it seemed
would never ebb, never settle
less than lovely! and only now,
deep into night,
it has finally ended.
The silence
is immense,
and the heavens still hold
a million candles, nowhere
the familiar things:
stars, the moon,
the darkness we expect
and nightly turn from. Trees
glitter like castles
of ribbons, the broad fields
smolder with light, a passing
creekbed lies
heaped with shining hills;
and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain — not a single
answer has been found —
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one.
~Mary Oliver~
 

LANG LEAV--I Call Her a Goddess

Lang Leav is one of my poet heroes. Pronounced Lang “Leeyav,” I first discovered her on Twitter and never looked back. She is a success story we can only dream of becoming. Her story went like this, according to her blog and website: “I self-published my first book, Love & Misadventure. As soon as it was listed for sale, my book began to top best-seller charts and caught the attention of two literary agents in New York. I signed up with Writers House and was promptly offered a publishing deal by Andrews McMeel.” Not only that, she illustrates her own books. She, yup, is a talented artist as well.

I am about to publish my first book of poems, and a little secret between us, I’ve written her to see if she might give it a read. A shot in the dark, I know, but a girl’s gotta try, right? Why the hell not? All she can do is say no or nothing…ahhhhh…but if she says, “yes.”

She was born in Thailand and has won numerous awards as a best-selling author. She is the winner of a Qantas Spirit of Youth Award and coveted Churchill Fellowship. Her books continue to top bestseller charts in bookstores worldwide, and her collection Lullabies was the 2014 winner of the Goodreads Choice award for poetry. But what I love when I read some of her poetry is the way it resonates with me personally, and I love watching her love story unfold with Michael Faudet, another poet I’m madly in love with, with whom I’m sure you’re all familiar. I can relate. Again. 

The Pheromone Myth and Online Relationships

Today I ponder attraction. Have you ever instantly been attracted to someone? It used to be believed that yes, we are attracted to people because of some substance called pheromones; in short, actual signals that serve as some kind of sexual attractant, even though we can’t see or smell them. Recently, some experts are calling that an absolute myth. But it does beg the question, doesn’t it?

Why upon meeting someone do we have an immediate raised heartbeat or find our palms sweating or our breathing labored or our cheeks reddening with some inexplicable radiance? Why do some people just make us thrum and make us want to throw ourselves at them while at the same time making us so shy, saying hello is somehow an insurmountable task? We twirl our hair and struggle to make eye contact and bite our lips until they’re pink with worry.

It’s impossible to answer and yet I shall try. You can be in a room full of people and different people are attracted to different people right then and there, without a word spoken. Am I right? Yes. Sometimes we are attracted to the same person and then it almost becomes some kind of animalistic competition. Comical even. I dare say no gender is exempt from the gene of competitive fierceness.

We often answer it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. We say: It’s looks at first but then I have to like his/her personality…but that’s far too simple. Isn’t it?  Some of the aesthetically-agreed-upon good-looking people, do nothing for me. And yes, I can meet someone and grow to love him and his personality, but it still does not explain that immediate attraction, that glow, that desperate need upon a glance or first meeting.

Throw in online relationships and everything goes to pot. Have you met someone and you felt all of those things? Without touch? Without sound? Hell, even without knowing what they look like? It’s happened to me. So I know it exists. Is it scientific? Nope. It would not hold up in any scientific study. It’s anecdotal, but it’s as real as this laptop I sit in front of and tap.
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My answer: It makes me believe in an unidentifiable spirit or soul. I don’t believe in religion or the god I was raised to believe in. But I will be the first to admit, there is Energy that just exists. We cannot fathom its presence or existence but can only FEEL its strength to know it’s real. And when that energy somehow unites with another energy that serves as a magnet, it’s called love. And perhaps that is the only answer worth knowing at all.

Be the Reason Someone Smiles Today

I was going to talk about my traditions with the movie “It’s a Wonderful Life,” but I’ve blogged about that before here: rbobrien.weebly.com/blog-posts/its-a-wonderful-life. This was tough to write. I dedicate this post to a special student, “D.” Sorry for its length and I thank you in advance if you make it through this whole post!

I know as a teacher we’re not supposed to have “favorites,” like parents aren’t supposed to have favorite children. But let’s face it, it’s real easy to develop closer bonds with certain students, and not only the “good” students, the ones who always dot their I’s and cross their t’s, but more, the ones who touch your heart in one way or another through ways that are just organic. Maybe it’s their growth; maybe it’s the underdog who has the world set against him from birth with poverty or abuse; or maybe it’s just someone you connect with somehow, and you see, for the first time for them what’s it’s like to be listened to, appreciated, or recognized for something they’ve never been recognized for before: their intelligence or writing or effort—that they DO matter.

I lost a student this fall unexpectedly, and though I hadn’t seen “D” for a while, he was special to me. He was a large boy. Troubled by insecurities. Perhaps addiction plagued him a bit. But he was brilliant. An exceptional writer. We’d spend hours some weeks during my office hours just shooting the breeze, talking Shakespeare or Soundgarten or Star Wars or how he challenged me to reread Harry Potter to see how great it was! (Sorry. Still don’t like it.) I laugh thinking about that. I hope he can hear me.

When I brought all my Christmas decorations out this year, I happened upon the ornament he had given me. As students get older, they think it “isn’t cool” to get their teachers presents. I’m here to tell you that’s a myth! I still get a few presents, and the brings a smile to my face.

Ornaments are special in my family. When growing up, that was a tradition my parents started. I have saved almost all my ornaments. Each and every one holds a special place in my heart. I can remember the who, the when, the why. If I couldn’t, I wasn’t allowed to put it on the tree. I must have told that story to my students on occasion, but it was “D” who listened, and when he left the college to pursue other things, he left me with an ornament. It was something that he, himself, carved for me, the quote: “Words. Words. Words,” from Hamlet and an etching of Shakespeare’s bust. I remember thinking how ugly it was. Truly. But I loved it so much, knowing that he had taken the time to make it with his own hands, something my father might have done, the renaissance man he was.

I pulled it out and mourned the loss of him and quietly cried. I realized I had touched him somehow. But he had touched me too. When he passed, and even as I write this, I feel the world lost a special person, a kind person, a person that left us far too young and leaves me with no answers to the whys of life and death, but to recognize that each person does come into our lives for a reason, as cliched as that is. For it makes me stop and remember that our actions and how we behave towards others affects them, even in small ways, but also in large ways, as large as “D” himself was. It can mean the difference between life and death even sometimes, our kindness, our words, our actions.

When he won a writing award at the end-of-the-year award ceremony, he bought me flowers and brought them up to the stage to give them to me. Someone jokingly yelled out from the audience: “Dude, you already got the award. You don’t need to bring her flowers now.” But I knew. And he knew. That it had nothing to do with it. Because the lesson here is that the little things we do for others has meaning and resonance. It’s not the big things or the grand gestures. It’s the quiet ones. A kind word. An acknowledgement. The ones that ask for nothing in return. It’s the ones that are genuine. And “D” was one of the most genuine people I have ever met. And ironically, it wasn’t his “words” that I remember, but instead, his actions. And to me, that is what we should carry with us this holiday season. Not the, “What did you get?” But instead, the, “What did we give?” Be the reason someone smiles today.

...on Friendship

​Have you ever woken up to find a friend has suddenly unfriended you? Or worse, “blocked” you? No word. No argument. Nothing leading up to it. A “break-up” that involves a gradual “letting-go” or growing apart, or  one that involves disagreements that conflict with your moral compass or downright points of no return are easy to understand. Those types of “unfriendings” are simple equations. You’ve broken the bond of trust. Smell ya later.

But occasionally, someone you deemed a “close” friend decides it’s time to part ways for whatever reason. No notification or reason you can think of. You scratch your head and wonder: ‘Just what did I do or say? What could I have possibly done?’ And it begs the question: Can you have real friendships in a place that is virtual? Are we all floating around in delusional bubbles? Mixing reality with fantasy? Are we putting too much stock in a world that exists only in the ether of possibly our imaginations?

Remember the days of middle school? You walk into your classroom, take a seat in your already-uncomfortable row of desks, and suddenly feel the air around you getting thinner? Jimmy sits in front of you and Margaret sits beside you and then begin to talk, while completing ignoring you, pretending you’re not there, using pronouns of ‘she’ and ‘her,’ instead of your name. You get glances not eye contact and you know, it’s your turn to be the odd man out, and you feel the ball in the pit of your stomach growing bigger as you know you’re about to be excluded and “unfriended” for a time, however long or short. Maybe you look at Margaret’s boyfriend too long or wore something she did the same day or got a better grade or had more compliments. Seems so trite, right? I thought those days were over.

Sometimes, I get that same feeling right here as an adult, and I pinch myself to think it still happens. And it seems to happen a lot on social media. Some days, I think: It’s really time to get off this merry-go- round of middle school. I just want to write and grow and share it with people. It hurts when someone you looked at as a friend does something like that, shakes your belief in trust, especially when you’ve been nothing by a support to this person, a friend in the truest sense. Encouragement. Welcoming arms. Honesty. You know--that little word called friendship? Call me crazy, but I take the word seriously. Does it mean I’m perfect? No. Does it mean I don’t slip up and lose my temper and say things I shouldn’t? No. Of course not. Who on this Earth is?
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But when I really stop to think or write, as I’m doing now, I realize that I’m blessed here and in the flesh-n-blood life to have people who are real friends. I can count on them and trust them and know that if a problem arises between us, we’ll communicate, talk, work it out. If someone here wants to unfriend me with no discussion or doesn’t deem our friendship worth an unearthing of the problem or couldn’t care less about two sides to a story or taking the time to discuss something but instead clicks a magic button that says “Poof. You no longer exist,” I guess the old cliched adage fits. They weren’t friends to begin with. And I’m probably better off.
But I’d be lying if I didn’t say it stings. Trust is a difficult thing, and sadly, it’s not likely to change any time soon. We can only be who we are and grow daily to be the best person we can be. So while I may press the pause button occasionally, I will not press stop, not yet, not over that. No. Way. I’m stronger than that, even if some days, I may feel like the 8th girl, alone in a cafeteria lunch room. 

Fashion: Art or Trivial Nonsense?

I’ll never forget the episode in “Sex in the City” when Carrie and Berger break up because she calls him out for having his leading lady in his novel wear a scrunchie in her hair. And whenever fall hits here in New England, my mind goes to immediately to fashion. Or as EA Barker likes to call it: Look-Like-A-Jedi season.  Yup. Boots! And over-sized sweaters. Scarves. Jackets. Turtlenecks. Corduroy. Belts. Tweed. Tights. Hats. Thigh-high socks. Oh my! It’s my favorite time of year for myriad reasons. But fashion is one of them.

Working in academia, I often get flack from some of my colleagues. How can you wear those shoes? Where do you shop? There goes our little fashionista.

I like fashion. And that’s never going to change. An article in the Guardian argues that fashion is history. It is art. Oscar Wilde had this to say about fashion: “Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.” 

​What say you? What is your favorite bit of fashion? Is fashion another way to separate us, maybe even define classes, or is fashion a form of art that knows no class?

This is what Zandra Rhodes had to say in her article: Is Fashion a True Art Form? (Full article here) www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2003/jul/13/art.artsfeatures1
 
“Quibbling over whether fashion is more or less important than art is just as pointless as questioning whether or not it is art. Of course it's not, it's fashion. That is not to say that fashion, at its best, is not a suitable subject for museums or that it cannot share some of the attributes of art. On the contrary, an exquisite haute couture dress - like the ones that Cristóbal Balenciaga created in his 1950s heyday - can look as perfect as a beautiful painting or sculpture.

Yet only an old-fashioned aesthete would argue that the role of the artist is to create beauty. Sometimes artists do, but for most of them beauty tends to be a by-product of their quest to explore the complex, messy, ambiguities of modern life. Think of Wolfgang Tillmans's photographs of areroplane wings and window sills now on display at Tate Britain. Beautifully composed they may be, but with a forlorn beauty too subtle to be replicated in fashion.
Similarly, fashion is adept at fulfilling another traditional function of art by reflecting changes in contemporary culture, but only up to a point. Think of how the Ossie Clark dresses in the V&A's exhibition evoke the desire for escapism at the turn of the 1970s. Yet, unlike art, fashion rarely expresses more than the headlines of history.
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And fashion has a practical purpose, whereas art does not. The result may be as gorgeous as a vintage Balenciaga ballgown or an eloquent political metaphor for its time, but it is still an item of clothing intended to be worn. Why pretend that it is anything else?”