Wifebeater
2009
Multimedia collaborative art made out of harassing voicemails left after a friendly dinner gone bad.
The Project
Back in the day, I used to book casting rooms for an independent film company and would work with a lot of indie filmmakers. One director emailed, asking me out to dinner. It seemed like a nice gesture, and as a young filmmaker and recent transplant to LA, I thought it would be a solid opportunity to network. I worried that accepting the invitation could be misconstrued, and since I wasn’t interested romantically, I email back, "OK. As long as you know upfront this is not a date, but purely professional."
"Of course," he writes, "I am so there too."
I think to myself: Oh, glad we cleared that up. This will be fun.
We eat at the bar of a sushi restaurant in a hip beach neighborhood. Yum! I love sushi. He orders large-sized beers, encouraging me to drink lots. I don’t, but he sure does and proceeds to get really drunk and a little belligerent. Afterwards, we walk along the main drag while he explains that heels would lift my butt up and I’d look sexy on his arm, don’t I want that? The conversation and vibe of the night shift so quickly, I’m disoriented.
He takes me up a quiet, dark street. He pulls me in and says, "We should date! Why don't we date?!"
"Sure," I react, "As long as you know I would date other guys, you know, nothing exclusive or anything."
He flips out. His body goes slack, his eyes glaze over, and dangerously quiet, he says on repeat: "I can't believe you just said that."
What. The. Fuck. It was like a vacuum seal broke open while panicked realizations whooshed in: Where am I really? I don’t know LA. I just moved here. Is this man even a filmmaker? I’M A WOMAN ALL ALONE IN A BIG CITY AND I’M GOING TO DIE!
I finally heed the red flags (Why does it always take so long?) and run to my car completely freaked out. I curse myself for trying to save money by parking on a side street, now unlit. Yet another small, devastating tyranny for women who must constantly be vigilant of physical safety: don’t park on unlit streets and oh yeah, remember to check if the street has lights when you park, and walk around with your keys as a weapon, and hey, don’t walk around at night anyways unless you have mace and a big bat.
Until that moment, I brazenly lived with the relaxed comfort of a man while exploring the megalopolis of LA. I had forgotten to remember I was a woman and that meant the same rules did not apply. It didn’t matter how many Women’s Studies classes I took in college, I was vulnerable. Feeling so helpless shook me. It was terrifying and equally infuriating.
As women, we try to give men the benefit of the doubt (OK, he's insulting the way I dress and telling me what to wear...uh, maybe this is his idea of being helpful?), while also communicating our feelings. This experience taught me honesty is not always the best policy. Honest and direct women often ignite tremendous anger in threatened men.
I lay on my bed, letting adrenaline and panic subside as I tried to make sense of what happened. I was in shock. Then, he calls. It’s 3am. Oh God, please stop. He leaves a voicemail. Calls back, leaves another.
Voicemail #1: In which a man explains that MY assertion of independence is hostile.
voicemail #2: now he gets scary
What perplexed me the most was his outrage at my declaration of sexual autonomy. This was about control. How dare I? How dare she.
Originally, I recorded these voicemails out of fear: should this man come to my home and try to strangle me in the middle of the night, at least there would be evidence pointing to my murderer. Later that night/early morning, I drove downtown to stay with a close friend. This was 2004, well before the #MeToo movement. I was highly skeptical anything could be done. Would people say: Did you provoke him? How did you dress? Maybe he had a bad day?
After a few bizarre moments during his casting (I handed over all coordination of his rooms to my awesome boss, and hid on the other side of the office whenever he casted.), I eventually forgot about the voicemails and for a few years, they hung out on my hard drive. When I found them and listened again, I realized these voicemails were some kind of special.
I started talking about the experience with friends, now able to revisit and laugh with perspective. As one friend and I listened, ours eyes met with simultaneous revelation: the troubling psychology--the attempt to control me, to dehumanize, to abuse--had a rehearsed, well-trodden feel to it. It was a pattern. This was the type of man who beat his wife.
Sitting in traffic one day, his voicemails echoed in my mind. He was desperate to hurt, but no longer scary or deranged or manipulative. It was just a bunch of noise. I couldn’t help but beat box. I should make dance songs out of these. Match his pattern with my own.
I reached out to artist friends to see if they could help and help they did. These busy folks are deeply talented. I am inspired by their immense creativity and diversity of art. Thank you.
And Ladies? Take back the night!
The ARTISTS
Roman Kovalik, Musician/Composer/Ninja
"Dysfunctional Hatred": the soundtrack to a dancy horror film. Terrifyingly moving.
Ransom Riggs, A+++ Five Star Ebayer
"Wonderful Night": clever, funny collage includes 1950s instructional audio, Al Green, and explosions!
Shawn Feeney, Brilliant, Friendly Alien
"Untitled": pushes the idea of words as rhythmic noise to a fascinating extreme.
DMTLabs, Burners burning it all down
"1982": Pairs music video cut from a disturbing 1950s movie with electronic music that makes you want to dance.
The Conclusion
Men are just as crazy as Women.