I never considered myself a feminist. In fact as a young girl in the 1960s I would watch the public bra burning demonstrations quite perplexed. Never considered doing that myself. Nor was I misogynistic. That was not who I was nor how I would proclaim my independence as a woman. I mean, whats the big deal about bras anyway? Hated them. Didn’t need one. Never wore one and always considered them to be the most unnatural constraining device invented. Uncomfortable. Useless. Unless of course, it was to deter all the fricking perverts out there. Perhaps there is wisdom in dressing modestly. But I digress.

Even though I never considered myself to be a bra burning feminist of the 60s, I have been pigeon holed as one during this millennium. A feminist artist no less. Stereotyped. Really? One of those? Curious, I had to investigate and reconsider this notion as I championed the right of a women to be human. Not commodified. A person. Treated with dignity, not objectified. Loved, not scorned. Encouraged, not denigrated. Through my work, I have articulated the effects of sexual exploitation and investigated and exposed the underlying institutional structures that have enabled the current deteriorating state of our global culture of rape. Yes, it is deteriorating despite the current wave of feminism that purports to empower women. Due to this I have been labelled a feminist but yet feel so far removed from your stereotypical activists of the 60s. Perhaps I should be grateful for the courageous bra burning forerunners that allowed me the freedom to speak out about this concerning human rights issue today. Perhaps without them the collective feminist voice would not have reached the critical mass of the #metoo movement thus asserting a voice for feminist work to continue. Does anybody care? Not sure. Yet.