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yes.

yes.

(Source: itskarlah)

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(Source: sfmoma)

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adbusters:

Georges Salameh
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my favorite part

my favorite part

(Source: tspaiva, via black-opium-katana)

Tags: women beauty
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(Source: tattooedmafia)

Tags: tattoo tattoed
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Is a feminism sponsored by the corporate music industrial complex as big as we can dream? Is the end game a feminism in which the glass ceiling for black women’s representation only reaches as high as our booties? Can’t we just love Bey as an amazing corporate artist without selling out the hard-won accomplishments of our black feminist and womanist foremothers? Can we not love her for the gorgeous and fierce mega pop star she is without appropriating her for some liberal, power feminist agenda?

These questions asked, we do understand the terror and mistrust some black women may feel when confronted with representations that reflect us to ourselves as brilliantly beautiful. We also get the impulse that these same women may have to criticize and destroy such images. But this is not that. Our critique of Bey as a feminist doesn’t come from a place of fear. Indeed it may even be more a critique of the black feminist blogosphere. Our real fear is of a bourgeoning cadre of institutional gatekeepers of “appropriate” black feminist politics going in hard with their facile analyses, shaming and silencing black women with alternative reads of B.

Real Colored Girls are not here to promote or co-sign the idea that to critique Bey’s “Flawless Feminism” is to hate black women. We reject the idea that love for the folks equals blind loyalty. Our deep and abiding love and respect for the ancestors will never permit an image of feminism wrapped in the gold chains of hip hop machismo. We ain’t throwin’ no (blood) diamonds in the air for ‘da roc, no matter how many feminists you sample over a dope beat. We’re smarter than that. We’re worth more than that.

Insisting on a rank and file consent and approval to these ‘terms of engagement’ is a form of bullying and in the spirit of Audre Lorde we remind you that silencing dissent will not protect you. We feel strongly that it is our duty and imperative to engage multiple perspectives in the marketplace of ideas, supporting open discourse, lest we find ourselves guilty of policing one another into a dishonest respectability.

Our work is not done. Beyhive… does not replace, nor is it even in the realm of the critical work of black women writers and artists across the discursive spectrum, as some folks have proclaimed across social media. As womanists and black feminists, we have a responsibility to bring it with our cultural work which we will infuse, at all times, with an ethic of care and responsibility. The coontocracy of assimilationist corporate negroes is in full effect, riding for patriarchal capitalist agendas and having us believe that somehow Bey’s success is a step toward some dystopic vision of progress for black women. There may be empowerment for some folks but by and large it is a false hope steeped in capitalism and individualism, supporting the escapist desires of rampant pornographic consumerism.

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Christa Bell & Mako Fitts Ward | The Problem With Beyhive “Bottom Bitch” Feminism (via america-wakiewakie)

(via america-wakiewakie)

Photoset

Photographer & Artist:

Dmitri Pryahin

Part of the  ”more&more”  Series

(Source: dmitriypryahin.livejournal.com, via rfmmsd)

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(Source: citroenzx, via babylove1611)

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babylonfalling:

1970
Photoset

Andre Elliott

Acoluthic Redux

(in progress)

(Source: darksilenceinsuburbia)

Tags: hand hand pain
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Reminds me of that one girl.

Reminds me of that one girl.

(Source: laceddreamsandvintageseams, via papermagazine)

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(Source: elixirkitten, via babylove1611)

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Wanting to send my mom something in the mail and realizing that by the time it gets there she won’t have an address. The last two months have been full of heartbreak and happiness, I don’t even know what… 

Wanting to send my mom something in the mail and realizing that by the time it gets there she won’t have an address. The last two months have been full of heartbreak and happiness, I don’t even know what…