Visions of female power and creativity

The arts are starting to offer women a way of expressing themselves in male-dominated cultures.

John Carlin’s piece earlier this month in The Times magazine on Egypt’s Light and Hope Orchestra (£) celebrates women’s visibility and power. Ironically, it was entitled "Female. Arab. Poor. And Blind." The orchestra is composed of 34 blind Muslim women (all wearing hijabs) who can impeccably play "at least 45 pieces of classical music" without notes to read and a conductor to follow, but through their extraordinary memories.

Again, earlier this month Haifaa Al Mansour’s Wadja, the first ever film made by a woman in Saudi Arabia (where cinema is illegal) was screened at the Venice Film Festival. The groundbreaking film tells the story of Wadja (played by Waad Mohammed), a rebellious 11-year-old girl, who enters a local Koran reading competition, planning to use the prize money to buy herself a bicycle, in a culture where women are not encouraged to cycle.

Earlier this year Abeer Zeibak Haddad released her extremely powerful documentary, Duma, about women speaking out about their experiences of rape and sexual assault, generally regarded as the first ever film to shed light on violence against women in Palestine.

Power and creativity resonates within the music of the Light and Hope Orchestra; in the story of the making of Wadja, and in women’s articulation of their damaging experiences in Duma. Each of these examples of women’s work is significant in terms of women’s visibility within cultures and societies that remain male-dominated.

Critical debates around women and the gender politics in the Middle East are increasingly stimulating. In the context of film this is particularly due to the expanding interaction between writing by scholars, critics and filmmakers from Western perspectives and from within Middle Eastern countries.

The issue of representation is important in thinking about women, power and creativity – not only in political terms, but also in relation to the media’s representation of women. Who is representing and who is represented? Can, for instance, filmmakers or journalists represent accurately different people, including those who they are not? Can men represent women and vice versa? In the context of film, for instance, does it matter if there are not many women directors? This last question is especially pertinent if it is believed that only women can represent women, or that they do it generally better than men. It is from this perspective that the absence of women directors leads directly to absences from the films themselves.

Women filmmakers from the Middle East tend to focus on issues including virginity testing, so-called "honour" crimes, female genital mutilation, forced marriages, and rape, which continue to be (at times religiously) practiced. Abortion is illegal or extremely restricted even in cases of rape in some countries. Making these issues more visible through the media is a complex task which may have different implications and reiterate differences between different cultures and societies. Yet, there is an urgent need for women to be more visible, more audible, more powerful. As Wadja’s director Al Mansour has commented in an interview:

"Women have to stick together and believe in themselves and push towards what makes them happy. We just need to push a little bit harder against tradition. We need to do things and make things and tell the stories that we want to tell. And I think the world is ready to listen."

The images in our minds about aspects of women’s issues and womanhood may predominantly come from the field of visual representation. To understand different types of womanhood from around the world more positive images of women are needed. Reality and representations of different realities have a strong connection. To create a positive change in the status of the real requires a parallel change in the media which seeks to represent the real.

 

The Light and Hope Orchestra in concert.
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Why does food taste better when we Instagram it?

Delay leads to increased pleasure when you set up a perfect shot of your dinner.

Been on holiday? Take any snaps? Of course you did – but if you’re anything like me, your friends and family didn’t make it into many of them. Frankly, I can only hope that Mr Whippy and I will still be mates in sixty years, because I’m going to have an awful lot of pictures of him to look back on.

Once a decidedly niche pursuit, photographing food is now almost as popular as eating it, and if you thought that the habit was annoying at home, it is even worse when it intrudes on the sacred peace of a holiday. Buy an ice cream and you’ll find yourself alone with a cone as your companion rushes across a four-lane highway to capture his or hers against the azure sea. Reach for a chip before the bowl has been immortalised on social media and get your hand smacked for your trouble.

It’s a trend that sucks the joy out of every meal – unless, that is, you’re the one behind the camera. A new study published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology suggests that taking pictures of food enhances our pleasure in it. Diners at the food court of a farmers’ market in Philadelphia were asked either to photograph their meal or to eat “as you normally would”, then were questioned about how they found it. Those in the photography group reported that not only did they enjoy their meal more, but they were “significantly more immersed in the experience” of eating it.

This backs up evidence from previous studies, including one from this year in the Journal of Consumer Marketing, which found that participants who had been asked to photograph a red velvet cake – that bleeding behemoth of American overindulgence – later rated it as significantly tastier than those who had not.

Interestingly, taking a picture of a fruit salad had no effect on its perceived charms, but “when descriptive social norms regarding healthy eating [were] made salient”, photographing these healthier foods did lead to greater enjoyment. In other words, if you see lots of glossy, beautifully lit pictures of chia seed pudding on social media, you are more likely to believe that it’s edible, despite all the evidence to the contrary.
This may seem puzzling. After all, surely anything tastes better fresh from the kitchen rather than a protracted glamour shoot – runny yolks carefully split to capture that golden ooze, strips of bacon arranged just so atop plump hemispheres of avocado, pillowy burger buns posed to give a glimpse of meat beneath. It is hardly surprising that 95 million posts on Instagram, the photo-sharing site, proudly bear the hashtag #foodporn.

However, it is this delay that is apparently responsible for the increase in pleasure: the act of rearranging that parsley garnish, or moving the plate closer to the light, increases our anticipation of what we are about to eat, forcing us to consider how delicious it looks even as we forbid ourselves to take a bite until the perfect shot is in the bag. You could no doubt achieve the same heightened sense of satisfaction by saying grace before tucking in, but you would lose the gratification that comes from imagining other people ogling your grilled Ibizan sardines as they tuck in to an egg mayonnaise at their desk.

Bear in mind, though, that the food that is most successful on Instagram often has a freakish quality – lurid, rainbow-coloured bagel-croissant hybrids that look like something out of Frankenstein’s bakery are particularly popular at the moment – which may lead to some unwise menu choices in pursuit of online acclaim.

On the plus side, if a diet of giant burgers and salted-caramel lattes leaves you feeling queasy, take heart: if there is one thing that social media likes more than #avotoast, it is embarrassing oversharing. After a week of sickening ice-cream shots, a sickbed selfie is guaranteed to cheer up the rest of us. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser