Escapism

I was reading an interview with David Suzuki yesterday, and he said something along the lines of “we’re ignoring the planet dying and instead focusing on celebrities” (sorry, I don’t have the exact quote).

This statement really got me thinking about escapism.

I have an obsession with stories. Not only do I spend a large majority of my time playing video games, watching movies, watching TV shows, reading books, and reading articles online, I also spend my time writing those articles, and those stories, and working on theatrical productions and, occasionally, films. My life is about stories. I live, breathe, and sleep them.

They’re how I approach the world – the experiences I have in real-world situations often turn into my best (or terrible, I guess that’s debatable) stories. My life is a series of stories, starring myself and my friends and family. I suppose this is true of all people – what would there be to talk about if not for what happens to us in our lives? We recount stories to one another every day.

Suzuki’s point mostly focused on celebrities. I do fall into this trap from time to time. I cast books in my head. I go to conventions and meet my favourite sci fi actors. I likely know way too much about the personal lives of celebrities, and I can usually name pretty much every actor I see on screen. I can even tell what commercials are shot in Toronto, based on the actors that appear in them (yes, I’m likely a dork).

Does this come at a cost? Do I ignore real world problems or situations in favour of the glitz and glamour of Hollywood? Yes. Probably.

I know the world is dying. I do a little bit – I’m all about public transit (although I’ll admit this is more for the selfish “I don’t want to learn to drive” reason – though the environmental benefit is nice) and I’m getting better about turning everything off when I leave, and doing things like only washing my clothes in cold water.

I know people are dying. There are so many terrible things that go on everywhere – war, famine, slavery, poverty, oppression. I don’t really do anything about that. I don’t know that I can. I’d love to adopt a child in some war-torn country or give money to those in need. I tell myself I don’t because I’m unemployed and have no money to give. Yet somehow I’m writing this from a Starbucks on Yonge Street – so that excuse doesn’t sit well with me. The extent of my charity is lazy – liking things on Facebook so other companies will donate a dollar, retweeting for the same purpose.

Sometimes I feel like I’m a really terrible person. Perhaps I am.

I get involved with politics to a point, but I don’t go nuts, mostly because I’ve learned there’s a lot of people I simply don’t want to discuss politics with.

I’ve always believed that telling stories helps the world. It makes us human. I still believe that. I believe we become aware of those people who are dying , the environment, everything through the media and education. I believe the arts are central to this because they allow us to work out our feelings on these things. And escapism isn’t all bad – it can’t be all doom and gloom all the time.

Do I hide in the stories? Does creating art and words make me self-centred? Am I a terrible person who lives in the arts rather than helping out her fellow man in the real world? Or can I help by writing and creating and doing? Is it a false reality? Does writing this down actually do anything for anybody or does it stroke my own ego?

I guess I just thought I’d share what was going on in my head today, as I sit in a Starbucks on Yonge, on a laptop I am lucky to have, in a life full of wonderful and terrible stories.

Hello Fashion Lovers!

I have a rocky relationship with fashion magazines.

I'm a tad embarrassed to admit to buying them, even. I tend to pass myself off as "one of the guys", so that should, in theory, wipe those off of the slate. I also like to pretend I'm some sort of intellectual, so the vapid "look at the pretty colours" text should also, in theory, make me want to burn the damn things.

Yet I have purchased every single issue of Lou Lou since it came out. I'm also partial to Lucky. I'm not terribly loyal to anything else, but I always manage to have piles of them taking up space in my room.

Why do I do this? I mostly don't even read them! I'm paying $5 to have a book of advertisements to flip through. And even then, I skip through the last half of the magazine, which is usually devoted to makeup. (I don't get the appeal of reading about cream or eyeshadow or any of that crap. It's a coloured powder. It is slightly different from this other coloured powder! Yay?)

There's also the whole feminist/ body issues thing. I most certainly do not look like the women in these magazines. In fact, most of the stores and clothing depicted wouldn't even fit me (apparently I am "plus-sized", according to most retail sizing, I disagree and am of the opinion that I am average). These women are genetically "blessed", heavily Photoshopped, and caked in makeup. But they are what society considers beautiful, and while I know logically how ridiculous that is, I have been conditioned to agree. Only recently, and I mean VERY recently, have these magazines been devoting A SINGLE (yes, one) page to "plus sized" women. These magazines in no way represent me, physically.

And in no way do they represent me intellectually, either. The articles tend to be extremely brief, filled with bad puns and exclamations (!!!), telling me that I absolutely have to own a cheetah print this month or be completely and totally shunned by my peers. Or how I need to where 6-inch heels so that I can appear slightly thinner (I'm not fooling anybody). Don't even get me started on the "How To Please Your Man" articles (which give terrible "generic" advice, by the way).

And yet here I sit, staring at a pile of magazines that take up space on my bedroom floor. If I have so many reasons to deplore them, why the hell do I keep buying these things?

The reason is art.

I appreciate the "art" of fashion. I love that each individual piece of clothing can be a work of art on its own (and no, it does NOT need to be expensive). I love that combining it with another item creates a completely different work of art. I love the endless combinations can create endless different works of art, that you get to inhabit each and every day. My closet can attest to this.

I buy fashion magazines to see what combinations others come up with. I get ideas for my own "art". I might decide that I need a motorcycle jacket, because I don't have one yet and I can really do a lot with that, all because of what I saw in a magazine. They inspire my own art.

Now, I don't really look at the "high-end" fashion magazines (any appreciation I have for these beautiful pieces is immediately stymied by the $4000 price tag next to them). I look for things that are attainable. I'd rather see an example of a great $30 dress which I could actually buy than a $300 one. It's all beautiful, but only one is practical enough to get me inspired.

This also, by no means, implies that I am fashionable. I am far too practical for that and will choose comfort over style 95% of the time. I endeavor to make that comfort as funky looking as I can, however. The "fashion is art" attitude is why most people can very easily peg me as an arts student.

What I'm saying is, I really shouldn't be so embarrassed by this habit I've developed. In their way, they help me create tiny works of art every day. That can't be so bad, can it?