#femme mennonite

[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Les mennonites il est interdit de les regarder dans les yeux

Femme

Hommes

[turtlesofhappiness]

Something amazing

You want the turtle to see something amazing, so you drive her out to the field near Kitchener where the Mennonites have the hot-air balloon rides. You just plonk her (you think she’s a her? You should use they/them pronouns, but you kind of want the turtle to be female, to be, even, a high-femme reptile, something about the roundness of her shell, the tranquility of her little black eyes, it’s important to you), you plonk her in the passenger seat, where she walks around a bit, then settles. After a minute’s contemplation you reach over and fasten the seatbelt, for reasons of magic. You do so many things for reasons of magic lately: a seatbelt is a protection spell; an invoice is a prosperity spell. Is it working? It’s not; you’re floundering. But at least you have the turtle.

It takes nearly three hours to get to Kitchener. Flat grey highways give way to flat green fields, underlined by the fine flat dark line of the escarpment to your left. The turtle is too far down to see out the windshield, in the bucket seat, so you reach over and put her up on the dashboard. A tricky maneuver, as you’re not an experienced driver; you swerve onto the gravel, startling a lone chicken, but you right yourself. The turtle slides a little this way and that, retracts her head partway. When she settles, you see rolling hills under big grey Zeppelin clouds; a guy doing donuts in a parking lot in one of those black horse-drawn buggies with the spindly wheels, the horse prancing wildly, flecked with sweat; a circle of vultures in a grassy field, swaying, wings spread. You see marching lines of windmills, enormous, turning with a dreamy slowness. You see dots of floating colour, tears in the sky: hot air balloons. 

As you park, as you cradle the turtle, now fully retracted, against your chest, as you make your way to the gap between hay bales that serves as a gate, as the balloons ripple and loom overhead, so much bigger than you expected, you remember how afraid of heights you are. Anything higher than the second step on a standard stepladder sings to you of the void. Some part of you knows that someday it will be your destiny to plummet from a high place. But this day, this excursion, isn’t about you. It’s about her: the turtle. You make the chucking noise that you sometimes use to lure her from her shell. It doesn’t work. Nothing ever does, except a proffered lettuce leaf, a partial strawberry. You have some shredded cabbage in the pocket of your cargo pants. You decide it would be best to get situated in a balloon, then lure her out with the cabbage once you’re good and high up there. You imagine what it will feel like, for her, to emerge from the comfy blackness of her shell to a mouthful of cabbage and an infinite vista. It will probably be really great.

Approaching the gate, you slip the turtle into the front pocket of your hoodie to avoid awkward questions. It turns out not to be necessary: the attendant who takes your money gazes past you with his pale blue eyes, the breeze stirring his straw-coloured hair, and tics his head to the side to indicate a balloon a little away from the others in the field. It is an intense, flaming orange, the kind of colour you need to inhale deeply while looking at in order to tolerate. It is turgid with gas, and its fiery shape strains upward, its colour cutting against the dark-grey bellies of the overhead clouds like a scalpel. 

A teenage girl in a long dress and white cap, modest and judgemental, steals glances at your knuckle tattoos as she helps you into the wicker basket and directs you to the red pleather bench. When she unties the rope, you expect a giddy rush of sickness, but instead you feel a slow, dignified elevation, like riding upwards on a wooden escalator while a small brass band plays Pomp and Circumstance. Your finger traces the hole in the turtle’s shell where her right front foot is hiding, retracted. The wicker wall is as high as your chin. You peek over it. You are high enough to see the parking lot, your car and the attendants’ van and a rusted pickup truck with empty propane tanks and rope in the flatbed. They dwindle, not quickly. You look up at the clouds, which seem marginally closer. The girl is opposite you, fiddling with the red knob on one of the propane canisters. There’s a hissing, whether of wind through wicker or leaking propane you don’t know. It’s time, you think.

Cradling her with your left hand, you slip your right out and reach it down to your leg pocket, pull out a fistful of cabbage shreds, starting to brown around the edges. Carefully, you draw her out of your hoodie pocket with your left hand, and rest the belly of her shell against the wide wicker rim of the basket. You extend a shred of cabbage in front of her, in front of the shell-hole where her head resides. 

You wait. Her shell is so pretty: a dark waxy green like old jade. It’s panelled, of course, the grout between the tiles of its top a pale yellow-green that looks white by comparison; and there’s a decoration of lipstick-red arcs around its rim, a series of patterned tiles like something you’ve seen on Greek pottery, an imprecise geometry, like letters generated by an AI. The bottom of her shell is almost gaudy by comparison with the top. Up close now, you can just see the edges of it, red and yellow and green in a pattern like leopard skin. You crush the edge of the cabbage shred with your fingernail so she can smell it better. 

Slowly, her snout emerges, craggy and black like a mountain turned on its side. You pull the cabbage away a little, luring her out. You can see her nostrils now, high and half-hidden in a peak at the top of her face. A little further, and you can make out her eye, bright green like the fields, bisected horizontally by an irregular black line that gives her, you think, a rakish, outlaw appearance. Further still, and the striped, snakey extent of her neck emerges. Her jaws open: so cute! And then she is ruminating on a mouthful of cabbage, looking out over the world, which is now, you realize, looking at it through her eyes, much further down, you are much higher up, you can see squares of dark green and bright green, almost neon against the blackening clouds, turning bluer in the distance, spikes of windmills here and there, turning their arms in loose breezy inorganic loops, all the way to Lake Huron, gleaming like dull platinum, from up here, behind the turtle, the world is beautiful,

[oberlincollegelibraries]

Weekend Edition: Novels With a Trans or Nonbinary Character(s)

March 31, 2021 marks the 12th annual International Transgender Day of Visibility, so why not pick up novel this weekend that features a trans or nonbinary character (or better yet — characters)? Below are a some titles available at OCL and through SearchOhio.

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin Guin's groundbreaking work of science fiction--winner of the Hugo and Nebula Awards. A lone human ambassador is sent to the icebound planet of Winter, a world without sexual prejudice, where the inhabitants' gender is fluid. His goal is to facilitate Winter's inclusion in a growing intergalactic civilization. But to do so he must bridge the gulf between his own views and those of the strange, intriguing culture he encounters... Embracing the aspects of psychology, society, and human emotion on an alien world, The Left Hand of Darkness stands as a landmark achievement in the annals of intellectual science fiction. Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl’s Confabulous Memoir by Kai Cheng Thom "Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl's Confabulous Memoir is a coming-of-age story about a young Asian trans girl, pathological liar, and kung-fu expert who runs away from her parents' abusive home in a rainy city called Gloom. Striking off on her own, she finds her true family in a group of larger-than-life trans femmes who make their home in a mysterious pleasure district known only as the Street of Miracles. Under the wings of this fierce and fabulous flock, she blossoms into the woman she has always dreamed of being, with a little help from the unscrupulous Doctor Crocodile. When one of their number is brutally murdered, our protagonist joins her sisters in forming a vigilante gang to fight back against the transphobes, violent johns, and cops that stalk the Street of Miracles. But when things go terribly wrong, she must find the truth within herself in order to stop the violence and discover what it really means to grow up and find your family."-- Provided by publisher

The House of Impossible Beauties by Joseph Cassara 1980, New York City. Burned by her traumatic past, Angel is new to the drag world, new to ball culture, and has a yearning inside of her to help create family for those without. When she falls in love with Hector, a beautiful young man who dreams of becoming a professional dancer, the two decide to form the House of Xtravaganza, the first-ever all-Latino house in the Harlem ball circuit. But when Hector dies of AIDS-related complications, Angel must tend to their house alone. She recruits Venus, a whip-fast trans girl who dreams of finding a rich man to take care of her; Juanito, a quiet boy who loves fabrics and design; and Daniel, a butch queen who accidentally saves Venus's life. The Xtravaganzas lean on each other as bulwarks against a world that resists them.

Confessions of the Fox: A Novel by Jordy Rosenberg "Set in the eighteenth century London underworld, this bawdy, genre-bending novel reimagines the life of thief and jailbreaker Jack Sheppard to tell a profound story about gender, love, and liberation. Recently jilted and increasingly unhinged, Dr. Voth throws himself into his work, obsessively researching the life of Jack Sheppard, a legendary eighteenth century thief. No one knows Jack's true story--his confessions have never been found. That is, until Dr. Voth discovers a mysterious stack of papers titled Confessions of the Fox. Dated 1724, the manuscript tells the story of an orphan named P. Sold into servitude at twelve, P struggles for years with her desire to live as "Jack." When P falls dizzyingly in love with Bess, a sex worker looking for freedom of her own, P begins to imagine a different life. Bess brings P into the London underworld where scamps and rogues clash with London's newly established police force, queer subcultures thrive, and ominous threats of an oncoming plague abound. At last, P becomes Jack Sheppard, one of the most notorious--and most wanted--thieves in history. An imaginative retelling of Brecht's Threepenny Opera, Confessions of the Fox blends high-spirited adventure, subversive history, and provocative wit to animate forgotten histories and the extraordinary characters hidden within"-- Provided by publisher

The Black Tides of Heaven by JY Yang The Black Tides of Heaven is one of a pair of unique, standalone introductions to JY Yang's Tensorate Series, which Kate Elliott calls "effortlessly fascinating." For more of the story you can read its twin novella The Red Threads of Fortune , available simultaneously. Mokoya and Akeha, the twin children of the Protector, were sold to the Grand Monastery as infants. While Mokoya developed her strange prophetic gift, Akeha was always the one who could see the strings that moved adults to action. While Mokoya received visions of what would be, Akeha realized what could be. What's more, they saw the sickness at the heart of their mother's Protectorate. A rebellion is growing. The Machinists discover new levers to move the world every day, while the Tensors fight to put them down and preserve the power of the state. Unwilling to continue as a pawn in their mother's twisted schemes, Akeha leaves the Tensorate behind and falls in with the rebels. But every step Akeha takes towards the Machinists is a step away from Mokoya. Can Akeha find peace without shattering the bond they share with their twin? Detransition, Baby: A Novel by Torrey Peters Reese had what previous generations of trans women could only dream of; the only thing missing was a child. Then her girlfriend, Amy, detransitioned and became Ames, and everything fell apart. Ames thought detransitioning to live as a man would make life easier, but that decision cost him his relationship with Reese, and losing her meant losing his only family. Then Ames's boss and lover, Katrina, reveals that she is pregnant with his baby-- and is not sure whether she wants to keep it. Ames wonders: Could the three of them form some kind of unconventional family, and raise the baby together? -- adapted from jacket

A Safe Girl to Love by Casey Plett Eleven unique short stories that stretch from a rural Canadian Mennonite town to a hipster gay bar in Brooklyn, featuring young trans women stumbling through loss, sex, harassment, and love. These stories, shiny with whiskey and prairie sunsets, rattling subways and neglected cats, show growing up as a trans girl can be charming, funny, frustrating, or sad, but never will it be predictable.

[up-the-family-tree]

J'ai relu certains actes pour vérifier et j'avais complètement loupé que la première femme de mon arrière-grand-père était mennonite ?

[shanlonwrites]

A story! 

Yesterday was the last farmers market of the year, and I had to pick up a couple things (like the ridiculously delicious mennonite carrots, and a bag of coffee beans for a friend). The procedure now is to leave your contact information and the time you enter at the door with volunteers for contact tracing. Great work by the market to keep things running smoothly and safely! 

So this fella rides up on a bike, no mask on, and starts harassing the volunteer who handed me the clipboard.

“How dare you!” he whines. (And he was whining, not shouting.) “How dare you infringe on people’s civil liberties by forcing them to identify themselves before making a purchase!”

And so many things. So many things absurd with this situation. But I did my hair today. I put on makeup. I wore my favourite winter skirt under my new vintage winter coat. I feel like a boss. And I have had it with the idiots. 

For a half second I consider the usual barrier to engaging with this kind of asshole: I am a small, feeble, femme person. I am easy to break. I am easy to steal. 

But I am at the market, where I know all the vendors. So not today mutherfucker. 

“Sir,” I snap, “I volunteered for this.” 

Now, having had the time to consider what I would like to have said to this young man, with his self-righteous attitude of total ignorance, I have come up with some far more cutting retorts: 

“Sir, do you have a debit card? A credit card? A driver’s license? Do you have a library card? Do you buy alcohol or cigarettes sir? Congratulations! You identify yourself before every purchase.”

“Sir. Do you use the internet? Do you have a mobile phone? They know where you are, sir. They are tracking you. They are following you right now oh my god they’re coming to get you and force you to pay taxes and generally participate in society run! Run away! GET AWAY FROM HERE AND NEVER COME BACK!”

“Listen, you whining half-assed ignorant excuse for a self-righteous vigilante, who do you think you are helping by coming here and harassing people who are trying to keep each other safe? You are helping no one! You are a whiny baby!” 

And YET

My half-coherent venom-filled response is enough to make this man shrink into silence. 

“Oh. Well. If you volunteered... then... *mumble mumble*” 

And he rode away, cowed, notably less confident. 

My guess is he was trying to impress me. Some White Knight bullshit. And I politely snapped his head off like he was a weed. 

Now, he may have misinterpreted my words as meaning “it is not required to leave your contact information,” when it is in fact required to enter the market. But such is life.

Goddamnit I wish I had been able to more thoroughly tear apart his logic in that moment and maybe, just maybe, prompt him to start thinking more critically about his choices and beliefs. Because that guy, as weak as he was in that moment, is the kind of person who goes on to become something worse unless they learn to think for themself (and not believe they are thinking for themself because the people feeding them these opinions tell them that swallowing this bullshit makes them an “independent thinker” rather than an ignorant follower of a different sycophant).

Anyway. 

That was a rush. 

[kiragecko]

It’s been really interesting, seeing what recognizing that I’m nonbinary has changed.

[Note: this post is from a very Christian perspective. There's a lot of mentions of God in it.]

Like, I don’t have dysphoria. Being called ‘female’ doesn’t bother me. I’m comfortable with my body. I enjoy presenting femme.¹

Other than my longing for people to use ‘they/them’ pronouns for me, for people to stop splitting into male and female groups after dinner², and for the male gaze to go away³, I don’t really want anything from the outside world.

So I've been struggling to explain WHY its important for me to be nonbinary. My husband, sister, and papa have all asked. I've asked myself, and God, a thousand times more.

And now that I've given myself a chance to discover if this label actually matters - allowing myself to live as nonbinary, tell the people important to me, open up this box - I'm surprised by the results.

I no longer question whether God made a mistake when designing me.

All my life, I've struggled to believe that God was proud of what I was. I was broken - with ADHD and anxiety, the type of person who could never remember to read their bible, or sit still through a prayer at church. God's promises in the bible couldn't possibly apply to me.

But the first thing that I accepted, when I started this journey, was that my identity in Christ was not gendered. My 'inner man' is a nonbinary child, in a too large white dress, playing at their father's feet. That was so natural that it didn't even frighten me.

After telling my husband I was nonbinary⁵, I started noticing a joy in me. A comfort with God. I feel so good and stable in my Christian identity. I can feel God's love and pride. I never felt like my gender was getting in the way. It never felt like that was what was 'wrong' in me. But I don't feel wrong now. God made me exactly as he wanted. I'm perfect, in his eyes.

-

I feel pride in myself.

There have been some challenges, at home. My son is going through a hard time. It's been bringing up past memories/emotions from me. The Husband has been growing a lot, and constantly gushes about all the things he's learning, while I struggle in the moment. He keeps asking if I'm willing to try things that might help me, and I've been snapping at him to stop being so controlling.

I was worried. What if my frustration was caused by a desire to change our relationship dynamics? What if I no longer wanted to fit into the role of 'wife' that we'd built together?

After a bit of prayer and meditation, I realized the real problem last night.

For the first time in decades, I'm proud of who I am. I want to stand up for myself. I want others to respect me. I want to make choices for myself - which suggests that I might trust my own decision making⁇

Now, I have no clue how to do any of that. I've spent over 20 years trying to get others to decide for me, so I won't fail as quickly. My attempts to decide for myself are almost always, 'no, I shall do nothing.' So I need to start learning to see options as OPTIONS, not demands. So that I can stop getting angry at The Husband for giving me tools to use.

-

I'd love for the people I care about to accept me. I know it doesn't really make sense. If I'm not unhappy with the idea of being female, if I don't feel the need to get an undercut and bind my chest, if I'm not trying to make a statement - why am I doing this? And this is my answer.

Recognizing that I'm nonbinary has mostly been accepting myself as I am. I have no desire to be someone different. I've been rejecting a part of myself for as long as I can remember. Now, I can accept that part. I get to be more myself than I've ever been. I get see see myself as made in God's image. I get to love myself. I get to feel God's love.

-

¹ At least, the long skirts and hair. Which has been how I present for the last decade.

² Especially Mennonite gendered groups. The acceptable methods of expression are so limited that I feel like I can't breath

³ Which isn’t happening, no matter what I do⁴

⁴ Also, this doesn’t apply to my husband

⁵ I first thought I was agender, but now I'm more comfortable with maverique/'third-gender'. Even though there are NO good names for it. Like, I'm so far from being a maverick that it's funny. This isn't about rebelling! So, I'm sticking with the term 'nonbinary'. It's too general, but better than the alternatives. I will accept suggestions, though. I'd like a word to use, the next time I tell someone. (If I tell anyone else.)

[revuedepresse30]

Avec “Ce qu'elles disent”, Miriam Toews libère la voix des femmes

Au départ, c’est un étrange fait divers. Entre 2005 et 2009 en Colombie, dans une colonie de mennonites, des femmes ont été régulièrement droguées et violées. En partie parce qu’elle a grandi au sein d’une communauté du même type, des anabaptistes ultrareligieux qui vivent dans un temps arrêté tels des Amish, la romancière canadienne Miriam Toews s’est dit qu’elle devait en faire un livre. Mais, plutôt que de décrire les viols, elle a préféré imaginer ce qu’il se passe après leur révélation au grand jour. 

L’auteure de Pauvres Petits Chagrins (Bourgois, 2015) nous plonge dans un huis clos. Nous sommes dans une grange où, profitant de l’absence momentanée des hommes, partis à la ville voisine, huit femmes se rassemblent.

Des femmes à un moment capital de leur existence

from Les Inrocks - livres https://ift.tt/31GaQzs via IFTTT

[heartland301]

L’arrestation de la sage-femme met en lumière la crise à la maison et la naissance de l’Amérique rurale

Selon ses estimations, Elizabeth Catlin a assisté à plus de 500 naissances - pour une communauté de femmes mennonites du nord de l'État de New York, qui ne savent pas comment elles vont accoucher sans elle.

[carsenandmovies]

Suspiria (2018)

Much akin to Darron Aronofsky’s mother! last year, Suspiria isn’t what it appears. It’s a puzzle and a commentary on something dangerously different than dancing witches.

Set in a split Berlin in the 1970s, Suspiria is a tale of its time. A tale of a war torn world at the hands of those who survived. The film represents much more than a dance company, a distressed woman, a psychologist, and a coven. It represents the war itself, and each character plays a role in this retelling.

The witches and the coven itself represent Nazi Germany, where they want complete control over their dancers and the perception of the dance company. We see that in the way the girls live and are paid, and the way they entrance the police to believe the goings on at the company are perfectly normal. They also wish to sacrifice certain girls, picked seemingly at random, for the greater good of the coven and its survival. The building can be perceived as Europe as a whole during the war as well, where there are places of hiding and places that are occupied but need finding to understand its true fulfillment.

The sacrificial lambs, the girls we see in the deep pits, including Patricia, can be argued are the Jews in this representation. They are without fault here, and stripped of their talent, their lives, their families, their money, and their freedom in order to satisfy their captors. Patricia says in our first introduction to her in the doctors office that Blanc can see where she is through her own eyes. Nazis would say to think like a Jew, in order to find one. Patricia thought there was no place to hide because she would always be found out. A true fear that Jews in the war also felt and documented throughout.

The dancers, the ones who aren’t sacrificed, are Germans. Sara doesn’t believe Susie that she “felt something” during her solo, and brushes her off and says that’s something Patricia would say as well. At this point, Susie has planted herself right where she can reach both sides, and isn’t able to explain to Sara that she is about to unleash a fight on the coven and the dancers. She is just getting stronger. Once Sara starts poking around the company, she learns that the dancers weren’t just telling tales. They were suffering and it’s because she witnesses and empathizes that she then suffers, too. A big argument for complicity in the Germans is that they would have received the same punishment had they helped Jews either escape or hide. Sara wanted to help Patricia, but found herself in a world of hurt as soon as she discovered the terror within the walls.

Nearing the end of the war, Blanc represents a resistance within the Reich. Something of a Ludwig Beck. She didn’t want to see Markos continue to rule, and she didn’t want to see Susie fall. But she was without power to stop either from happening. She was complicit in the planning of the fall of Susie and was something like spellbound to see it through.

Susie is America. She ultimately wins. Her flashbacks to her childhood represent a hardship that she had to endure in order to help those when she was needed. She mother represents an oppressive atmosphere that can be likened to a pre-civil war era in America. They’re Mennonites, for crying out loud! When Susie takes interest in Berlin and Germany during her studies, she is scolded. America first, she’s told. She is able to play both a spy and an operative in the company.

The final battle in the basement could represent the Invasion of Normandy. It was a bloody battle that required a fucking load of work, and as Susie instructs the dancers to continue to dance, she is also taking the lives of her allies and enemies. She is working double time to ensure the battle is won.

Just as the battle is represented, I think Olga’s contortioned body is France as a country. The country was completed ravished in order for the war to be won and it was a sacrifice that wasn’t appreciated at the time. France was left wrecked, and they had to completely rebuild. Just as Olga was still breathing when they picked her off the studio floor, France still had a pulse and a desire to live after the war as well.

The dance itself is the art that came out of the war, and more specifically, the art that came from Nazi Germany. Hitler hailed himself something of an artist and a cultural gerrymanderer. Blanc, the general in this context, was expected to produce art in both a figurative and literal sense. The Third Reich picked Europe apart to find the art that Hitler wanted to surround himself with and also to show the world how stylish they thought of themselves. Susie infiltrates the dance and places herself directly in the center of it, and ultimately ruins the last act by showing off. The graffiti outside can be seen as faux art. That of the resistance, and therefore unworthy of explanation or recognition by the company.

The story is really the muddled love story of Josef and Anke. It’s bogged down by the war, just like the lives of actual people during this time. Josef, also played by Tilda Swinton, believes his wife to be alive, and goes on living a life he thought she would approve of. He doesn’t remarry. He doesn’t sell their house. He lives his life as if she is still with him, with a scar where she once was. The war tore their life apart and he is forced to revisit it by becoming involved in the company’s business, and one could argue its his way of becoming involved with the Red Army Faction that many believe Patricia is involved in. This would require two timelines, and a second watch for me to complete this argument.

Judaism and feminism collide in a big way here as well. There are so many mentions that women are strong and should be believed, and that delusions equal lies. Coming off the MeToo movement, I think we can all agree that women are to be believed. This film constructs feminism in a way that leads me to believe they are alluding to the fears many Jews had leading up the war that weren’t given a global voice like women are demanding in 2018.

Aside from all this, the film is beautiful. It reminds me so much of Rosemary’s Baby is the fading transitions, use of mirroring, the conversations overheard, and the musical tension. There is so much attention to detail here and I’ll point out just a few of my favorite aesthetics.

The film is very textured, and we see that by way of hair, both on heads and in “hairballs”. The hair plays a big role in the femme fatale vein and when Susie’s hair is cut, we see her tense for a moment, like she’s afraid of losing it. She ultimately embraces her new look and doesn’t lose her strength like she’s supposed to.

The use of language is interesting as well. We aren’t given an idea of which language is superior, although we see Susie using English, German, and later, French. The languages represent a global community and tell us that pain and prosperity both transcend communication.

We also get small details, like the beds, the music, the lack of music, the dream holograms, and the color palette. The colors are very muted until we get to red, and then it’s a massacre of both bodies and colors. I enjoyed the coloring of this film very much.

I’m happy to see Dakota Johnson break out of her 50 Shades shell and into a more noir setting. She’s a terrific actor. If she doesn’t get nominated, I’ll be disappointed.

5/5. I will watch this again and again and again. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

[extrabeurre]

Flash-back 2008 : LUMIÈRE SILENCIEUSE de Carlos Reygadas

Le brillant film Lucière silencieuse a pris l’affiche le 27 juin 2008 à Montréal. J’avais eu l’occasion de m’entretenir avec le cinéaste mexicain  Carlos Reygadas à cette occasion :

CARLOS REYGADAS : L’OEUVRE DE DIEU, LA PART DU DIABLE

Dans Lumière silencieuse, Prix du jury à Cannes en 2007, Carlos Reygadas explore l’amour, le désir et la foi au sein de la communauté mennonite du Nord du Mexique.

Depuis une dizaine d’années, on parle d’un nouveau cinéma mexicain dont l’impact se fait sentir à travers le monde. Guillermo del Toro, Alfonso Cuarón et Alejandro González Iñárritu en sont généralement considérés comme le noyau dur mais, bien qu’il fasse un peu bande à part, Carlos Reygadas demeure une figure marquante de cette génération émergente de cinéastes originaires du Mexique.

"Je ne travaille pas directement avec del Toro, Cuarón et González Iñárritu, mais on est amis, on échange parfois des idées, on regarde les films des uns et des autres… Il y a vraiment une grande diversité maintenant dans le cinéma mexicain, et je pense que c’est sa force", affirme dans un français impeccable le cinéaste, joint par téléphone à sa résidence mexicaine.

Lumière silencieuse (Stellet Licht) se déroule au sein de la communauté mennonite du Nord du Mexique, un mouvement religieux germanique qui évolue selon un mode de vie traditionaliste, à l’écart du reste de la population mexicaine. "Ils ont néanmoins beaucoup de choses en commun avec nous, précise Reygadas. Par exemple, toute la nourriture, leur sens de l’humour, la façon dont ils traitent leur famille… C’est vraiment un beau mélange de la culture germanique et de la culture latine. De toute façon, ce qui est important, c’est qu’il s’agit d’un homme, de son père, de sa femme, de sa maîtresse, de ses enfants. Et ça, ça reste pareil pour n’importe qui, je pense."

La plus récente réalisation de Reygadas est une oeuvre dépouillée et impressionniste, où la présence physique des lieux et des individus prime sur les dialogues. "De mon point de vue, le cinéma est fait surtout pour la sensation, un peu comme la peinture ou la musique. Je préfère voir, écouter et laisser les choses respirer que de narrer une histoire à travers la bouche des comédiens. Je ne me sens pas comme un raconteur d’histoires, mais plutôt comme quelqu’un qui présente un objet, un sujet ou un endroit pour que le spectateur puisse projeter une partie de lui-même sur ce qu’il contemple, selon sa propre personnalité et sa propre conception du monde."

"Par exemple, poursuit le cinéaste, mon père, qui est un homme très rationnel, pense que la fin du film doit s’expliquer d’un point de vue scientifique ou médical. Ma mère, par contre, croit que c’est une allégorie de la puissance de l’amour. Et il y a des gens qui pensent que c’est un complot de lesbiennes!"

Et comment Reygadas lui-même interprète-t-il la saisissante finale de Lumière silencieuse(qu’on ne révélera évidemment pas ici)? "Ce que je pense n’a aucune importance, sauf d’un point de vue anecdotique. De toute façon, il ne s’agit pas de comprendre, mais plutôt de sentir. Pour moi, le cinéma est très proche de la vision intérieure, du rêve. Quand on fait un rêve, on s’en fout de comprendre. Ce n’est pas une devinette du tout, ce qu’on voit, c’est ce qu’il y a, c’est tout ce que je peux dire."

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Le Poète aveugle – texte, mise en scène et images de Jan Lauwers

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Par Véronique Hotte dans son blog Hottello

Le Poète aveugle – A propos des mensonges de l’Histoire, texte, mise en scène et images de Jan Lauwers, musique de Maarten Seghers – spectacle en anglais, arabe, néerlandais, français, norvégien, tunisien surtitré en français

La griffe des spectacles de Jan Lauwers et de la Needcompany dont on a vu La Chambre d’Isabella (2004) parcourir les plateaux du monde entier, relève d’une génération d’artistes à la pointe de la réinvention de l’écriture scénique, mêlant alternativement ou simultanément la parole, la musique, l’installation et la danse.  Le Poète aveugle (2015) est un spectacle vivant dont le geste artistique respire la liberté à travers une scénographie changeante, à travers des interprètes vêtus de costumes chamarrés et entourés de bon nombre d’accessoires insolites et rares. Le spectacle délivre les témoignages divers de comédiens sur leur héritage oublié. Le matériau artistique de Jan Lauwers repose non seulement sur les performers aux nationalités, cultures et langues autres, mais encore sur leur arbre généalogique. Une manière de s’arrêter sur d’identité dans l’Europe multiculturelle d’aujourd’hui. Avec le compositeur Maarten Seghers, Jan Lauwers s’inspire des œuvres d’Abu al’ala al Ma’arri, poète syrien aveugle des X é – XI é siècle, et de Wallada bint al Mustakfi, poétesse andalouse du XI é siècle. L’histoire étant toujours écrite par les hommes et par les vainqueurs, l’artiste s’interroge aussi sur les mensonges, les rencontres fortuites et les accidents de parcours qui ont pu déterminer les destins. Selon le metteur en scène, chacun a quelque part une correspondance avec tout le monde. L’un de ses ancêtres, armurier à l’époque de Godefroy de Bouillon, a rejoint sa croisade. Les croisés sont passés par l’Allemagne, où l’ancêtre de la mère des enfants de Jan Lauwers – l’interprète Grace Ellen Barkey -, les a reçus en maire. Alors que Place du marché 76, un spectacle en référence à l’espace public, s’arrêtait sur l’identité collective, Le Poète aveugle privilégie le regard sur le portrait individuel. Sept comédiens de la troupe sont ainsi conviés pour décliner leur propre carte d’identité bien frappée : Grace Ellen Barkey, Jules Beckman, Anna Sophia Bonnema, Hans Peter Melo Dahl, Benoît Gob, Mohamed Toukabri, Maarten Seghers. Les zooms express s’animent et rendent compte de l’Histoire du monde – bouleversements et guerres -, mais aussi de l’histoire privée et des drames privés. La fresque ainsi obtenue vogue entre fiction et réalité, imagination et vie authentique. Tout commence avec Grace Ellen Barkey par l’Indonésie, puis par la Chine, l’Allemagne, les Pays-Bas et la Belgique et finit par Mohamed – musulman mono-culturel. Maarten Seghers – neveu de Jan Lauwers – est comme son oncle, l’héritier d’une quarantaine de générations d’armuriers. Le comédien norvégien Hans Petter Melo Dahl est Viking ; et son épouse, Anna Sophia Bonnema est une Mennonite de Frise. La mémoire de Benoît Gob s’en réfère aux bordels de Liège : « Mon père n’avait pas besoin de bateau pour conquérir le monde. Il partait naviguer sur la Meuse dans un tonneau à bière vide. » De même, la catastrophe qu’a connu un ancêtre d’Anna Sophia Bonnema relie celle-ci à la Chine ; son navire, dans le détroit de la Sonde entre Java et Sumatra, essuie en 1883 l’éruption du volcan Krakatoa, et les ondes du choc font sept fois le tour de la terre – une catastrophe mondialisée. Or, le spectre de la « bête identitaire » hante nos continents comme bien d’autres. L’identité à l’origine signifie unité, correspondance et personnalité égale. Il s’agirait plutôt aujourd’hui d’« identités meurtrières », selon l’expression d’Amin Maalouf. Aspiration légitime, au départ, le mot d’« identité » signifie un instrument de guerre. Réfugiés et autres migrants, les identités se multiplient et restent associées et mêmes, la femme demeurant une icône universelle, la métaphore de l’hospitalité. Le Poète aveugle répond à l’esthétique flamande et libre de la mixité des formes scéniques : monologues, danses chorales, danses en solo ou collectives. Le plateau reçoit les interprètes qui font leurs aveux, surgis de la fosse à orchestre, un couloir circulaire pour les acteurs en attente qui sont descendus du haut de la salle. Sur le plateau immense qu’illumine la puissance des projecteurs, un immense catapulte fonctionne patiemment, portant, sur l’un des côtés de la bascule, un cheval mort dont on préfère garder la charogne tant il est sacré pour le cavalier, au risque d’enclencher des comportements de cannibale en ces temps de famine médiévale. Un acteur fait l’équilibre de l’autre côté de la balance, faisant lever et se baisser la bête. Entre l’armure morcelée de chevalier et l’évocation des ceintures de chasteté, la haine est partout. Tel un grand tableau de Jérôme Bosch, des figures grotesques et burlesques hantent la scène, des personnages dansants et se contorsionnant dont la volonté d’agir et de résister face aux travers du monde reste impressionnante. Grace Ellen Barker a résisté à la maladie grâce à sa volonté et à son énergie, et le tableau final voit l’interprète porter sur ses épaules une énorme tumeur gonflée de plastique sombre que ses camarades s’approprient, par instants, pour la soulager. Un spectacle attachant qui, moins distendu, aurait gagné en concision et efficacité. Véronique Hotte La Colline – Théâtre national, du 11 au 22 octobre.

Crédit photo : Maarten Vanden Abeel

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La prééminence de l'homme sur la femme est-elle présente en Genèse 1.26-27? | Point-Théo Les Points chauds organisés par le centre de formation mennonite du Bienenberg ont abordé le 15 février 2020 la question particulièrement clivante du ministère féminin en faisant débattre Guillaume Bourin (GB) et Marie-Noëlle Yoder (MNY), représentant respectivement les positions complémentariste et égalitarienne, sur le thème : « Une femme peut-elle être pasteure ? » Les enregistrements des […] point-theo.com https://www.instagram.com/p/CFujFOKndkU/?igshid=1ldbo0ercnkq3