This article is going to lead exactly to the place you might have suspected: me pondering the use of menstrual blood in art as feminist activism. Or maybe you didn’t anticipate that, at least not in a College Voice article, not at Connecticut College. On college campuses different from ours you might have seen this coming; Bard, maybe, or Oberlin. As much as we love to applaud our liberalism and open-mindedness, Conn is a relatively conservative campus—and we do not often use menstrual blood in our art.
As a community that is currently concerned with defining and practicing feminism, in ways small and large (most readers are acquainted with the much-watched, discussed, praised and critiqued “Why Are Vaginas Important to You?” video produced by Alia Roth ’14 that went viral two weeks ago), it is critical that we consider more radical methods of breaking down the patriarchal bricks that lay the walls of sexism. One senior Art major is endeavoring to do this in a way that, for many at Conn, is shocking.
I heard about Kaitlin Fung’s senior art thesis (which is also her PICA project) long before I saw it. Ours is a small campus where word travels fast, whether it be scandal, rumor, or bodily fluids in Cummings. So, when I met Fung in the senior studios in Cummings on Halloween evening, I was looking forward to finally seeing in person the work that had incited so much response. The image that gossip and my own imagination had cultivated was of bright splashes of crimson red streaked across a fifteen-foot canvas (something loud and gaudy) but in reality, Fung’s work is far less aggressive.
Pinned to the walls of her workspace were small pieces of linen sprinkled with constellations of menstrual blood, and surprisingly, for something that has provoked so much reaction, it’s fairly understated. Beside these smaller pieces are intricately embroidered menstrual pads, stitched together with red thread, that read in different sized lettering, “I was the first of my friends”, “I bled in the bathtub”, “Mom said I became a woman” and a few other first-period declarations.
One piece that asserts itself in a slightly louder way, and which Fung said has provoked the most “Eww, gross” responses, is a piece of canvas with a large smudge of rusty red across it, where the artist emptied her menstrual fluid in a splashing motion. She laughs of the way it turned out, “It’s almost like a nod to Pollock, who was such a chauvinist.”
As she showed each of the hanging pieces, Fung explained, “My project is using art in an activist way, to reduce menstruation stigma. I’m looking at the way [menstruation] has been represented in popular culture and seeing how my artwork figures into this greater narrative of menstruation and visual representation.” She is also attempting with her work to foster an understanding of menstruation as “a healthy embodiment; to not see [it] as something that happens to you.” Her work can be considered part of a movement that is in vogue right now in some feminist circles, sometimes called radical menstruation, menstrual activism, menstrual anarchy, or menarchy. Menarchy, in a few words, is any effort that attempts to take the shame out of menstruation.
Fung and I spent most of our time not actually discussing her art, but expressing frustration over the absurd measures taken to make sure people don’t know you’re on your period, to hide your products, to ignore in any way possible this natural process happening within your own body. During the creation of her work, Fung reflected often on “the fact that [feminine hygiene products] are manufactured…[to] label menstruation as a hygiene crisis and something we should clean up and hide…also the way all the products being made publicly advertised are disposable. It’s just another way to hide it.”
Getting your period is an experience that almost all women (and over 60 percent of this campus) experience at least monthly, yet is still shadowed by shame, lack of knowledge, feelings of dirtiness and sometimes disgust. The notion that menstruation and humiliation are bound up in each other is reinforced in tampon commercials that boast an “ultra-discreet” product, the requisite “I bled through my white pants at a birthday party” story in every of “Embarrassing Stories” issue of Women’s magazines, and a general reluctance to talk about menstruation or even acknowledge that it happens to us. It’s so rarely talked about that many girls still experience their first period in terror, thinking they are dying because no one ever explained to them anything about menstruation.
Furthermore, few women know about alternative menstruation products, which produce less waste and are potentially safer. A woman disposes of an estimated 11,400 tampons in her life, which, apart from being a mini-environmental crisis, is just expensive. Although usually met with disgust and intimidation, it’s important to mention the existence of menstrual cups, (popular brands are Diva Cup and Moon Cup) which pose no risk of Toxic Shock Syndrome, can be left in for up to 12 hours, and are reusable. This article is not meant to be an ad-campaign for the Diva cup (to each their own, and many women find that pads and tampons are best for them), but we do deserve to know all our options. Informing ourselves about something that happens to our bodies regularly is not only a feminist action, but one that makes common sense as good stewards of our bodies.
So why menstrual activism, any good feminist might ask, when one in four women will be sexually abused in their lifetime, or while women still earn significantly lower salaries than men doing the same work? For Fung, this is just one piece of work in a larger commitment to feminism and activism; she also works for Safe Futures, formerly the Women’s Center of Southeastern Connecticut, Safety Net on campus, and serves as a director for the Vagina Monologues. She sees this work as, “a venue I’ve decided to explore because it feels like something I can do direct work in.”
Largely, Fung’s menstrual art is important because it gets people talking. By starting to talk about our bodies, we start to talk about our experiences, our lives as complete, whole people and our histories, collective and individual. Discussion prompts women to feel less alone, to create networks with other women and to stop feeling humiliated just for being female-bodied. Fung commented on this: “I think it’s incredibly damaging when we don’t talk about things—especially regarding our bodies. So, while I want people to talk about menstruation that hope expands to all kinds of issues surrounding the body we tend to stray away from (masturbation, sex, hair, etc.). It’s my hope that through conversation people feel a sense of validation about their experiences.”
Perhaps running around campus dangling our used feminine hygiene products as a statement of our emancipation from the patriarchy is not the next logical step for this campus. Using menstrual blood as lipstick, which artist Ingrid Berthon-Moine did in a 2011 project, will likewise probably not be well received at Connecticut College either. We can, however, as we so often do at liberal arts school, talk. Fung’s work has provided an occasion to talk, and by talking, give ourselves permission to let go of some of the embarrassment we feel about this very natural, healthy process. “I want people to look at menstruation in a new way. But in a bigger, more general way, I just want people to talk about menstruation. I want that to be a regular conversation that’s happening. •
