In an age of tragic death being as common as the sun rising every morning, we are still very emotional and heartfelt beings when it comes to the subject. We do not need to have personally known someone who has fallen to be affected by their loss. Celebrities are the case in point; when Princess Diana died, her funeral invited mourners from across the globe that cried and grieved louder than any visible Royal (not surprising). When Michael Jackson passed away, his family hosted a public memorial where celebrities, including a former adversary, Brooke Shields, paid their respects to the man once convicted of child molestation. Apart from some London fans and some quiet music executives, there has been no real shock to the loss of singer Amy Winehouse.
It is not necessarily the reaction of Hollywood that has interested me, it is my own social response to the “tragedy” that is of interest. I discovered her death on Facebook. I was scrolling through my “Most Recent” feed as I do every morning; the first post listed was a friend’s link to the Australian detailing her death. I followed the link promptly, for an average Sunday morning it was the most interesting post that could be potentially up there. It doesn’t say much of my friends when I say they usually post a nag about a hangover that could kill a horse. I skimmed the article. All seemed as expected: woman found dead in apartment, nothing overly suspicious about the circumstances, a rehab regular celebrity’s name attached to the death notice. I returned my Facebook page and continued to look through the posts. Her death coinciding with the morning of the big Tour de France time trial, there were more posts about Cadel’s victory than anything else.
“What a waste”, I thought. “Not a shock, really, but a waste. She had so much talent wasted.”
But things were long gone for Amy Winehouse in my mind. Since 2007 she has been in and out of rehab, she hasn’t produced an album since Back in Black and has not made a sober/credible performance since the album release. I viewed her as a musical gem, a talented soul that would make waves with everything she did. But as I watched her own demise, self perpetuated by drugs and rebellion, I grew less empathy for her wasted talents and became resigned to the idea of her being unable to recover. I guess I wasn’t the only what one who thought that; Amy’s mother, Janis, said she saw her daughter the day before her death and it was apparent that her daughter’s death was “only a matter of time”.
For a member of the general public, have I presumed, not knowing the intimate details of Amy’s life, that she had a timer on her life that was due to go off prematurely? Through the articles and photos I saw of her self harming and constant drug abuse, did I assume the worst had already happened to her? Did I just expect to one day pick up the paper and read about this? Did it just happen to be Sunday was the day?
I guess the same could be said of the demise of other troubled celebrities; the antics of Lindsay Lohan. I roll my eyes every time I hear she has broken another restraining order or is heading back to jail. If they threw away the keys for years on Lohan’s life, I am sure I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. The phrase “I could see it coming” would be the first thing on the tip of my tongue.
I feel I should apologize for not feeling more sadness for Amy’s death. Despite me never knowing her, I feel this should not excuse a lack of tears and sadness for such a great talent’s passing. But I guess from shock can come great sadness, so I wish it was more of surprise, for the sake of my conscience.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Beautiful Bali Beach and the tale of the Old Man’s sarongs
Once upon a time, there was a girl who went to Bali for a holiday.
There is a special quality to the Bali life of ex-pats and how that lifestyle is reflected in their fashion. As I met dozens of these ex-pats, I kept stumbling similar qualities of their dress, their physical appearance in terms of beauty treatments, hair, facial adjustments. I had never seen people who looked like this. They were like aliens to me and I wanted to go up to them and prod them to check they were actually real.
I didn’t know what an ex-pat was until I arrived in Bali; my travelling companion, the Boyfriend, pointed out the label of these people once we had met a couple of them. He explained they were people who had moved to Bali for work or now retired leisure. In short, they were immigrants to the country that had more money than the locals who enjoy the lower cost of living and the all year round heat.
I was at the most enchanting beach party in Seminyak; I had managed to scheme my way into an engagement party between a fat, rounded American and an over-plastic surgeon worked Australian woman, both of which were well into their forties. Both were lovely and had a very sweet, accepting manner and kindly let me be a part of their celebrations. I had the best spot at the beach party. I parked myself on a wicker chair in the far corner of the beach that the party occupied. From here, I could cite a full length view of the guests walking in and the entire scope of the party once they had arrived. It became a game as I judged, unfairly, every guest’s entire appearance with special attention being paid to the item of their wardrobe they chose to wear.
The unofficial uniform of an ex-pat consists of a key staple qualities; everything must be linen and bellow off the skin into the wind revealing charcoaled, wrinkled skin. The females are constricted by halter neck tops or dresses that push their bosoms up to nestle under their chins. They wear over strapped heels in the sand that are a pastel peep toe. The men are all in white three quarter capris or sarongs; all are bare foot with perfectly manicured toes and a severe allergy to closed leather shoes. Everyone is worked to an inch of their life by the friendly local plastic surgeon and their make-up, men and women included, is sprayed on like wall paint.
I don’t know what it about these people but you can see in it their manner, their relaxed shoulders that they are so very happy. Am I envious of how they live? I can’t quite work out if I am. Can I be an ex-pat when I am older if it means sans linen and plastic surgery?
There is a special quality to the Bali life of ex-pats and how that lifestyle is reflected in their fashion. As I met dozens of these ex-pats, I kept stumbling similar qualities of their dress, their physical appearance in terms of beauty treatments, hair, facial adjustments. I had never seen people who looked like this. They were like aliens to me and I wanted to go up to them and prod them to check they were actually real.
I didn’t know what an ex-pat was until I arrived in Bali; my travelling companion, the Boyfriend, pointed out the label of these people once we had met a couple of them. He explained they were people who had moved to Bali for work or now retired leisure. In short, they were immigrants to the country that had more money than the locals who enjoy the lower cost of living and the all year round heat.
I was at the most enchanting beach party in Seminyak; I had managed to scheme my way into an engagement party between a fat, rounded American and an over-plastic surgeon worked Australian woman, both of which were well into their forties. Both were lovely and had a very sweet, accepting manner and kindly let me be a part of their celebrations. I had the best spot at the beach party. I parked myself on a wicker chair in the far corner of the beach that the party occupied. From here, I could cite a full length view of the guests walking in and the entire scope of the party once they had arrived. It became a game as I judged, unfairly, every guest’s entire appearance with special attention being paid to the item of their wardrobe they chose to wear.
The unofficial uniform of an ex-pat consists of a key staple qualities; everything must be linen and bellow off the skin into the wind revealing charcoaled, wrinkled skin. The females are constricted by halter neck tops or dresses that push their bosoms up to nestle under their chins. They wear over strapped heels in the sand that are a pastel peep toe. The men are all in white three quarter capris or sarongs; all are bare foot with perfectly manicured toes and a severe allergy to closed leather shoes. Everyone is worked to an inch of their life by the friendly local plastic surgeon and their make-up, men and women included, is sprayed on like wall paint.
I don’t know what it about these people but you can see in it their manner, their relaxed shoulders that they are so very happy. Am I envious of how they live? I can’t quite work out if I am. Can I be an ex-pat when I am older if it means sans linen and plastic surgery?
Friday, July 1, 2011
Dancing in the Dirt.
"But they do say some pretty harsh stuff and it affects everyone and their inspiration. You do 30 hours of practice a week and it's hard to go into that after some bad feedback."
Damien Leith, June 30th 2011 – Dancing With The Stars Constestant 2011
When will dancing return to being a beautiful classical form of expression that people enjoy as opposed to a money hungry media blood bath?
I became nervous, back in 2004, when I heard that Channel 7 was producing their own version of the BBC’s Dancing with the Stars, as did most in the dancing community. Since its first airing on Australian screens, the culture of formal dancing, not just boogie on down at the disco, has taken a three hundred and sixty degree circle of popularity and influence on the community. And in ten years time, I doubt we will remember what it felt like to be in height of the dancing hype.
I am a Ballroom and Latin dancer; I say that with much authority. I can teach the styles with confidence as leader and follower; simply put I can be the man or the woman depending on the situation and how many champagnes I have under my belt. I have learned dancing since I was eight. Now that I am twenty three I can say I am an old fart at the sport.
My dancing life started with the movie Strictly Ballroom and a square patch of concrete in my backyard. Hours upon hours I would spend trying to replicate the moves, especially that magnificent Samba that Scott unveils his devilish “own steps” to. The movie nailed the costumes of the era, the styling of the dancing, as well as the controversy of the industry, but also highlighted just some honest, good dancing. Every dance in that movie was beautiful to watch, giving credit to the Australian actors who passed the acting and dance tests. What spawned from Strictly Ballroom, besides my immediate rush to become the world’s best ever dancer, was a greater realisation by the Australian cinematic industry that this country has potential to make quality films that translate into other audiences. The movie grossed eleven million in the US; that was a lot for the olden days. But the film did dick all for dancing industry. Instead it painted most dancers as pretentious, over dramatic queens that have nothing better to do than just destroy the confidence of the pure hearted. Ok, yes, they nailed the type but still, it did nothing.
So hope could have been restored with the premiere of Dancing with the Stars; experts in their field lay it on the line to dance for a disco balled crowned statue. How courageous they are to receive payments for stepping out of their comfort zone on national TV. If it was “inspiration” I was after, I would rather see them be thrown into snake pit and watch them try and crawl their way out. If they got out alive, that’s worth admiring them for.
Within the first moments of watching the show, the way in which the “celebrities”, if we are to so call them that, bitched on about how hard it was to learn the routines made me think: “Bull shit. You have been taught for a full week of intense training and you have learned basics with flares and tricks at the end. Any moron could learn that.” To make matters worse, a friend at the time asked me if it was really that hard to learn how to dance. I naturally scoffed; the show has painted this as the most challenging thing to do ever!
As I scoffed, dance instructors laughed their asses off as the work just poured in. I guess you just can’t fault the power of what celebrities can influence. It is the simple case of monkey see, monkey do and even the most intelligent of people are not immune to media influence. The dancing industry became big booming business overnight; people flocked into the studios, all wanting to learn what Bec Cartwright performed the night before. So as the show gained its mass following, the dance industry reaped the rewards with money flowing into lessons every day.
But I think the show, and other shows like So You Think You Can Dance and the ....Got Talent franchise, has turned the actual experience of dancing savage. Younger generations are learning that dancing is purely competitive and about being the best technical and creative dancer possible. They are learning that if they don’t achieve this level of dancing ability then they do not amount to be a “Dancer”. Even the title premise of “So You Think You Can Dance?” suggests that those who thought they could move will be no doubt be proven wrong because their ability to dance will not be good enough. The sad part is that unlike Australian Idol, there is no high paying career or career projection from winning the show. So many dancers go through the turmoil of being made to feel inadequate and for what?
So what enjoyment is there of dancing when constantly being judged with every move being scrutinized and there being no reward in such criticism? If you played a sport I would understand; the potential to earn big money is very real. In Australia, there is not much for a dancer and the entertainment industry is tough and cut throat.
The backlash that the celebrities go through on Dancing With The Stars is even worse. And we seem to except it as celebrities get roasted daily on the front page of Newspapers and magazines so why not whilst they dance too. The saddest part of all is dancing is so beautiful and so pleasurable to be a part of. And teaching dance is such a rewarding profession. But, as the show approaches its eleventh series, the dancing industry no longer feels the warmth of enthusiasm from the public to dance. The influx of business has slowed and as the public grows tired of the show so do they of the industry. Now we suffer with the burden of expectation of excellence without the support of the public.
Damien Leith, June 30th 2011 – Dancing With The Stars Constestant 2011
When will dancing return to being a beautiful classical form of expression that people enjoy as opposed to a money hungry media blood bath?
I became nervous, back in 2004, when I heard that Channel 7 was producing their own version of the BBC’s Dancing with the Stars, as did most in the dancing community. Since its first airing on Australian screens, the culture of formal dancing, not just boogie on down at the disco, has taken a three hundred and sixty degree circle of popularity and influence on the community. And in ten years time, I doubt we will remember what it felt like to be in height of the dancing hype.
I am a Ballroom and Latin dancer; I say that with much authority. I can teach the styles with confidence as leader and follower; simply put I can be the man or the woman depending on the situation and how many champagnes I have under my belt. I have learned dancing since I was eight. Now that I am twenty three I can say I am an old fart at the sport.
My dancing life started with the movie Strictly Ballroom and a square patch of concrete in my backyard. Hours upon hours I would spend trying to replicate the moves, especially that magnificent Samba that Scott unveils his devilish “own steps” to. The movie nailed the costumes of the era, the styling of the dancing, as well as the controversy of the industry, but also highlighted just some honest, good dancing. Every dance in that movie was beautiful to watch, giving credit to the Australian actors who passed the acting and dance tests. What spawned from Strictly Ballroom, besides my immediate rush to become the world’s best ever dancer, was a greater realisation by the Australian cinematic industry that this country has potential to make quality films that translate into other audiences. The movie grossed eleven million in the US; that was a lot for the olden days. But the film did dick all for dancing industry. Instead it painted most dancers as pretentious, over dramatic queens that have nothing better to do than just destroy the confidence of the pure hearted. Ok, yes, they nailed the type but still, it did nothing.
So hope could have been restored with the premiere of Dancing with the Stars; experts in their field lay it on the line to dance for a disco balled crowned statue. How courageous they are to receive payments for stepping out of their comfort zone on national TV. If it was “inspiration” I was after, I would rather see them be thrown into snake pit and watch them try and crawl their way out. If they got out alive, that’s worth admiring them for.
Within the first moments of watching the show, the way in which the “celebrities”, if we are to so call them that, bitched on about how hard it was to learn the routines made me think: “Bull shit. You have been taught for a full week of intense training and you have learned basics with flares and tricks at the end. Any moron could learn that.” To make matters worse, a friend at the time asked me if it was really that hard to learn how to dance. I naturally scoffed; the show has painted this as the most challenging thing to do ever!
As I scoffed, dance instructors laughed their asses off as the work just poured in. I guess you just can’t fault the power of what celebrities can influence. It is the simple case of monkey see, monkey do and even the most intelligent of people are not immune to media influence. The dancing industry became big booming business overnight; people flocked into the studios, all wanting to learn what Bec Cartwright performed the night before. So as the show gained its mass following, the dance industry reaped the rewards with money flowing into lessons every day.
But I think the show, and other shows like So You Think You Can Dance and the ....Got Talent franchise, has turned the actual experience of dancing savage. Younger generations are learning that dancing is purely competitive and about being the best technical and creative dancer possible. They are learning that if they don’t achieve this level of dancing ability then they do not amount to be a “Dancer”. Even the title premise of “So You Think You Can Dance?” suggests that those who thought they could move will be no doubt be proven wrong because their ability to dance will not be good enough. The sad part is that unlike Australian Idol, there is no high paying career or career projection from winning the show. So many dancers go through the turmoil of being made to feel inadequate and for what?
So what enjoyment is there of dancing when constantly being judged with every move being scrutinized and there being no reward in such criticism? If you played a sport I would understand; the potential to earn big money is very real. In Australia, there is not much for a dancer and the entertainment industry is tough and cut throat.
The backlash that the celebrities go through on Dancing With The Stars is even worse. And we seem to except it as celebrities get roasted daily on the front page of Newspapers and magazines so why not whilst they dance too. The saddest part of all is dancing is so beautiful and so pleasurable to be a part of. And teaching dance is such a rewarding profession. But, as the show approaches its eleventh series, the dancing industry no longer feels the warmth of enthusiasm from the public to dance. The influx of business has slowed and as the public grows tired of the show so do they of the industry. Now we suffer with the burden of expectation of excellence without the support of the public.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)