Torquere (E-Journal - York University)

Malanchuk, Terry

Show-Room Mannequins 
TERRY MALANCHUK 
Terry Malanchuk (melanoxylon@shaw.ca) has been a keen 
photographer since the age of six when he got his first Kodak 
Brownie Holiday Flash camera. He maintains that his style and 
sense of proportion have not fundamentally changed since then. His 
impossible dream was to own a Polaroid camera and this he 
achieved by age 14. Although the Polaroid was expensive, he used it 
for the next four years until it was stolen. He was introduced to 'real 
photography'(chemicals, darkrooms, etc.) at the University of 
Alberta. He worked here as a photographer for the Gateway 
newspaper and the University of Alberta Yearbook for a couple of 
years before attending the Northern Alberta Institute for Technology. 
Though photography then came to play a secondary role to a passion 
for motorcycling and full-time work as a motorcycle mechanic, he 
nonetheless produced more than 10,000 negatives in the 1970s. Most 
of the prints were given away to friends as soon as they were dry; all 
the negatives were destroyed on one day in a deliberate and 
malicious act designed to cause the photographer great pain. Terry 
returned to the artistic use of the camera only on November 17, 1999. 
Artist's Statement 
E ach dictionary has its own definition of art and artist. Webster's New World defines an artist as "a person who does anything very well, with a feeling for form, effect, etc." An artisan is 
"a skilled workman or craftsman." I claim both titles, having worked 
in both fields, although 'artist,' to be valid, must be conferred by 
one's peers (other artists) whereas an 'artisan's work' can be measured 
by empirical means. 
Yet there is overlap between the two. I have seen 'snapshots' 
hidden away where no one ever sees them, a few of which are 
undoubtedly works of art. I have also seen a few photographs in 
respected galleries that I wouldn't pull out of the garbage. 
Styles in architecture, clothing, the use of color, etc., change 
torquere: Journal of the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Studies Association I 
Revue de Ia Societe canadienne des etudes lesbiennes et gaies 
Vol. 3 (2001) © CLGSA I SCELG 
132 I Malanchuk 
radically over a relatively short period of time- say, a few decades. 
Next time you are at a Value Village or Goodwill store, look at some 
books describing, for instance, clothing and architectural styles of 
the late 1960s to the late 1970s. The criminal use of color (purple, 
orange, avocado, harvest gold), smoked glass, patterned gilded 
mirrors, furniture that appears to have been created using only an 
axe - and all of this in the same room! 
So was it mass hysteria? 
Drive around Edmonton and notice the architecture and use of 
color. There are tens of thousands of new dwellings having as the 
main architectural feature a triple garage and an entryway with a 17' 
ceiling, curved staircase, and gaudy chandelier. All in 'architecturally 
controlled' subdivisions. All in the same 'inoffensive' colors. How 
will these stand the test of time? 
I would often drive past a shop that sold show-room mannequins 
(I refuse to call them 'dummies'). One night I spotted a pair ofLucite 
women's 'gams' in the window. I was then totally hooked and the 
wonderful staff gave me the run of the place. I was fascinated to find 
outthat the mannequins are made from molding casts that were made 
from 'real' people. Once 'perfect' bodies from 40- or four thousand 
- years ago are still valid today. (Of course, garish repainting can 
make them valid only to a certain time or place.) So is beauty 
essentially timeless? Is beauty innate? Is beauty ever 'architecturally 
controlled'? 
Portrait photos of circa turn of the century were always serious, 
painstaking, and made to impress one's peers, friends, and- perhaps 
-enemies. I remember when my cousin and I were 13 years old we 
put our 25 cents (for 4 different poses) into a mechanized photo booth. 
The first photo was serious, the other three were making gaudy faces, 
smirks, and waving our tongues around. (Mooning had not been 
invented then.) When we showed these pictures to my grandfather 
he literally glowed at seeing the first exposure. Seconds later he was 
beetroot red and frothing at the mouth. 
When I do the printing I just stand back and see what happens. I 
then choose the themes and motifs that speak to me and toss in a bit 
of metaphor and hyperbole. Some prints almost print themselves; 
others may be cajoled. My 'style' is based on a beliefin an inherent 
sense of proportion; this can be used in a grand manner, a mediocre 
manner, or in parody. Rules are made to be broken. I love angles, 
Mannequins I 133 
usually acute but sometimes oblique. Squares are to be avoided, but 
again: rules are made to be broken. 
The most import technique is having a vision of the desired result. 
Second must be to do one's own printing. Lastly, expensive or esoteric 
cameras are not required. One of my favorite cameras I bought from 
a Goodwill store for 99 cents. 
My advice is to shoot lots of film and try to make each exposure 
the best you can. Ten mediocre photos of something that attracts you 
are nothing compared to the one that sums it all up. Also, some 
negatives are so easy to print that it seems there is nothing to it. Then 
there is the negative that takes two days and 50 sheets of paper to get 
it Just Right. Near my enlarger is the quote: "We choose to do these 
things not because they are easy ... " 
The photographer thanks Normand and Value Store Fixtures. 
Terry Malanchuk, Mommie on Morphine. 
134 I Malanchuk 
Terry Malanchuk, Vogue. 
Terry Malanchuk, Drag Queen. 
Mannequins /135 
Terry Malanchuk, Serene Sacrifice. 
136 I Malanchuk 
Terry Malanchuk, Cracked 1950 I Rita Hayworth. 


English

Show-Room Mannequins

Cullis, Rose

The Politics of Water 
RosE CuLus 
Rose Cullis is a playwright living and working in Toronto . Her 
playwriting credits include Baal (Buddies in Bad Times Theatre , 
Toronto), Pure Motives (The Theatre Centre , Toronto) , and That 
Camille Claudel Feeling (a dance/text pelformance piece presented 
as part of the Toronto Fringe Festival). She has collaborated with 
visual artists, dancers, and musicians in creating an installation 
piece for Shared Habitat- A Festival of Art and the Environment. 
Most recently she won an awardji"om the Harold Greenberg Fund 
(script development program) to develop a screenplay of her play 
Baal. Her writing has appeared in UnderCurrents and The Church-
Wellesley Review. She is a member of the Stern Writing Mistresses. 
The house is leaking 
A burst pipe here 
and then another 
Soon the wood floors are thick as blotting paper 
I jam my finger into a hole in the pipe 
but it's not enough 
water slips across boundaries, defies the rules 
of geography runs hidden and determined through 
deep veins - drops through the porous surface of the earth 
and creates underground rivers that swell into being 
over hundreds and hundreds of years 
Look down: 
Two women are in a boat headed for the shore 
Their paddles dip and rise and dip 
torquere: Journal of the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Studies Association I 
Revue de Ia Societe canadienne des etudes leshiennes et gaies 
Vol. 4-5 (2002-2003) © CLGSA I SCELG 
!56 I Cullis 
Did you know our bodies are seventy percent water? 
she asks me her mouth soft and sweet and wet 
Her tongue it's her tongue I love, her tongue I sin with 
Wishing I could possess it, wishing I could make it all mine 
We wanted to live as birds construct a tender 
house of straw accept the seasons of love 
the inevitable ebb and tide 
of our passion for one another 
make a sweet and temporary home 
rise together and fall apart 
willingly 
to love in awareness 
to drink deep and let go without a trace 
We had a dream of free water 
And this is the story: 
that I feared thirst, I wanted power, 
I built dams, I held back floods, 
Grasped at what we had 
and turned it into a commodity -
I took our free gift our love and I made it 
A token for exchange to have and to hold 
But love won't yield to that kind of tyranny 
We can create a loss 
by accounting for what we have 
in a particular way It's all too easy 
to take generations of rainwater 
and squander it 
to direct water into tubes that drip 
through a wash of poisons 
till the sea feels the gap in the earth 
demand a new weight, and presses in 
as salty as a lover's tear 
And they say that someday 
wars will be fought over water 
See how water can be made to yield 
to a kind of measure, it can be valued 
at so many dollars a litre, and sold 
and suddenly there isn't enough 
The Politics of Water I !57 
How come some of us have it and some of us don't? 
There are shells with pointed tips as delicate as nipples 
with bruised blue spirals as casual and precise 
as her fingers trailing a flesh-toned interior 
in my ear the pounding sea my crashing blood 
Maybe if I had had love, I wouldn't have wanted it so badly 
Coiled accounts of love lost who did what 
why make a labyrinthine vortex always 
partially filtered polluted by encounters 
water spinning down the drain into pipes 
spiked with poisons into combined sewers 
seasoned with waste 
till the whole frothing soup 
is either hurled into the closest body of water 
or filtered, treated, bleached and released 
On the beaches in Toronto a sign reads "No Swimming" 
I stand on a rough shore wailing into the implacable waves 
A roar of sea rushes at me and stops 
then tries again 
The water gleams like hammered metal 


The Politics of Water

Wright, Les

Tangled Memories of a Wounded Storyteller: Notes on Bear History and Cultural Memory

Alley, Henry

The Dahlia Field

Bell, Chris

In the Absence of Security: A Memoir

 ,  

Information

Fisher, Caitlin

Tell 
CAITLIN FISHER 
Caitlin Fisher is an Assistant Professor of Fine Arts/Cultural Studies 
at York University. Research interests include hypertext, feminist 
theory, and narratives about childhood. Caitlin has a longstanding 
interest in integrating autobiographical and critical writing and is a 
member of the Stern Writing Mistresses collective, based in Toronto. 
Her hypertext about girlhood and sexuality, These Waves of Girls, 
has been shortlistedfor the 2001 Electronic Literature Awards for 
fiction. 
I always knew, early on, it's a cliche, I know, but it's also true-skipping in the alleyways with my friends, including Bobby Ruskin sometimes, and boy could he skip . . . we never made fun 
of him, but, come to think of it, no one kissed him during no rules 
tag, either - back then, it's true that I knew, just knew, that I liked 
girls instead of boys, knew in a way that meant more than just not 
wanting to kiss poor Bobby Ruskin. I held this secret to the soundtrack 
of the strange skipping songs and the dull, rythmic thwack thwack of 
third grade ever-enders- "Back Door Suzie miss a beat you're out, 
Backdoor Suzie miss a beat you're out ... "We were so good, even 
with only two or three skippers, that we sometimes had to sing that 
song a hundred and fifty times, an all-out furious running zazen, 
screaming running meditation, opening all sorts of strange chakras, 
before we made a mistake. I was good at "Had a Little Car, 1948," 
but dreaded the stupid wind song. That gentle lovely one that finishes 
with the nasty fast whipping and you end up with your true love, or 
not. "The wind the wind the wind blows high, blowing Susan through 
the sky, he is handsome she is pretty, she is the girl from the golden 
city, they go marching one-two-three, may I ask you will you marry 
me?- yes no maybe so ... " Before you started, you were supposed to 
tell everyone the name of your true love. How could I tell them it 
was either Madame Renault or Cindy Ashford? I often searched the 
torquere: Journal of the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Studies Association I 
Revue de Ia Societe canadienne des etudes lesbiennes et gaies 
Vol. 2 (2000) © CLGSA I SCELG 
130 I Fisher 
eyes of the other girls but none ever seemed conflicted or anxious, 
the names of boys running off their tongues through giggles without 
effort or regret- Kevin! Neil Sunderland! Gavin McKnight! I mostly 
stuck to my old standby -Micky Dolenz from the Monkees, or, later, 
one of the Bay City Rollers (not the blond guy). In my head I'd whisper 
the True Name, but I always felt I was cheating the skipping oracle 
and could never count on the answer to "yes no maybe so" being 
true. 
At home sometimes I'd tie one end of the skipping rope to the 
water tap in the driveway and turn the rope for myself (you aren't 
allowed to do skipping songs just holding both ends and doing single 
skipping) but I couldn't turn pepper like that and, by that time, I was 
such a good skipper at more gentle speeds that whispering "Cindy" 
and doing yes no maybe so meant I never tripped up, just had to 
choose my answer and stop. Yes. I decided the oracle would hate me 
forever unless I pledge never to trick it again. 
Knowing the truth went beyond skipping. Cindy held her grade 
six party in her recroom ("It cost my dad ten thousand dollars to 
remodel it and he had the money!") and her older sister Pamela held 
dancing contests, which mostly meant she smoked out the tiny sliding 
window and chose Julie Kazer who took jazz dancing on Saturdays 
at the community center. Cindy was a good dancer, too, but couldn't 
really expect her own sister to pick her at her own birthday party- so 
I would say things like, "You're such a great dancer, Cindy, really, 
you should win," and even in grade six she had a fantastic hair flip 
thing she'd do and her hair was like Golden Curling Hair Barbie and 
she would spin away and ignore me. I decided, then, that I was the 
type of girl who was better at watching other girls dancing than 
dancing myself. I ask myself now - do I look weird, there in the 
recroom, as I put my hands to my sides in defeat, no chance of winning 
this contest, feet barely shifting on the floor, moonily staring at Cindy 
Ashford? What does the terribly sophisticated Pamela-:- now in high 
school, French inhaling in my direction - think when she hears me 
say to her little sister, "No, really, you're the best dancer here. And 
.. . your hair smells good." 
Cindy is dressed in a sea-green chiffon party dress. I am wearing 
stretch jeans with rivets on the pockets, brown oxfords and a Charlie's 
Angels t-shirt. I know Cindy deserves better as she twirls to the center 
of the room for "Dancing Queen" and I head for the chip table. 
Tell I 131 
Cindy and I do have a secret, though. When she comes to my 
house we sing "Don't Go Breaking My Heart"- that duet by Elton 
John and Kee Kee Dee- about a million times. She's Kee Kee Dee 
and I'm Elton John, of course, but even when I'm singing "Don't go 
breaking my heart" and she's singing "I couldn't if I tried" ... and 
then we both sing the part that goes "Ooh-ooh, nobody knows it. 
Nobody know-ooh-ohs. But right from the start, I gave you my heart. 
Wow-wow, I gave you my heart ... " I know it's not a secret for her 
the same way it is for me. 
More ABBA! The six grade girls are going wild. It's "When I 
Kissed the Teacher." Oh no. Our teacher is Madame Turcotte now, 
and though I still like Madame Renault my allegiance has shifted. 
We have no male teachers for our class, and, really, for guys there's 
just the principal and one grade four teacher for the whole school. 
Cindy says she'd like to kiss Pamela's math teacher- she saw him at 
River High School's grade nine drama night. So would Mariko (she 
was there, too). Everyone seems to have a male teacher in mind ... 
like they've been missing kissing him for ages. It doesn't make sense. 
I'm trying to come up with a name, but can't. During these anxious 
minutes I realize I'd be happy to kiss almost every teacher in the 
school- Mlle. Summers, Mrs. Olivette, even the kindergarten teacher 
with adult braces and the librarian who also works at Dairy Queen, 
in addition to Madame Turcotte. They're all girls . Although it totally 
fits with the song, I think, I vow silently never ever to tell about the 
dream I used to have about Madame Renault just before I went to 
sleep where she was in bed with me - well, really, I was sneaking 
into her bed and under the covers - and she looked at me and said, 
"But Susan, you're a girl!" and I said, "Who cares?" And we slept all 
curled up together until morning. I don't kiss her in the dream, but 
it's fair to say it's still kind of a kissing dream. I know telling them 
about the dream wouldn't be a good idea. Think! Even Julie, whose 
mother doesn't let her go out except to that stupid community center, 
comes up with a name: "I like Smitty." Smitty!? Smitty 's the janitor. 
How can it be worse to like a girl than the janitor who has food stuck 
in his moustache and is always asking us to scratch his back? But it 
is. The girls are screaming-delighted with the Smitty answer. They 
turn to me expectantly- "Me, oh, I don't know, I guess I'd kiss Mr. 
Lewis." The principal. But I wouldn't, no way. 
I always knew, early on, to keep my mouth shut. At Lincolnwood 
132/ Fisher 
playground, swinging full out and letting our heads drop back toward 
the ground, staring at rushing sky, Cindy sings the "Lez-be-friends" 
song. I don't say anything, just swish back and forth . I know Cindy's 
gold hair must be sweeping the sand by now, back and forth, and that 
she's singing about lesbians. I don't say a single, single word. Swoosh. 
"Oh, I'm just kidding," Cindy says. She starts to sing a song in mock-
baritone instead: "Strangers in the night, exchanging rubbers. This 
one is too tight, let's try another. This one is too loose, I'm losing all 
my juice. Da, da!" I'm not sure I know what a rubber really is. I 
know what a lesbian is. 
Lesbians live in Dalewood, near our school. Libby Watley says 
two of them live in a house near her and do we want to throw ice 
balls at the house? I'm not sure. Everyone throws ice balls at the 
house. Eggs, too. Libby tells us all to run fast, fast past that house 
and I do. "What are lesbians?" I ask Libby. "Girls who hold hands." 
"But we hold hands." (I've done more than hold hands, but not with 
her). Libby shakes her head, "No, not like that. They don't like boys 
and they're grown up." She tells the story. The lesbians were holding 
hands in the park, well, right by the park, and Steven Brown's mother 
said if she ever saw them near that park again she'd call the police-
she would! And-come-away-Steven-you-too-Libby-Good-Lord. I 
nod. I wonder where the lesbians will walk now since their house is 
so close to the park. While I wonder this, other people wonder out 
loud if the lesbians have a cat because that would be so sad for a cat 
... to have to live with that. Plans are made to kidnap the cat. If there 
is one. I need to decide - am I the kind of person who will throw 
iceballs and steal someone's cat, or will I have iceballs thrown at me 
and have my cat stolen? 
The next year I am in junior high and all grown up and everyone 
that year is gay and stupid faggot and in junior high almost all of our 
teachers are men and we have different subjects in different classrooms 
and the homeroom teacher for 7B is Mr. McFagan but we call him 
Mr. McFaggot. One day I'm waiting for the city bus to take me to the 
school and I'm at the transfer point near the woods and a bus comes 
by the other side and the art teacher gets out - Mr. Vogel, the one 
who goes to Swish Chalet with Mr. McFaggot. He motions me to get 
on the bus. I pretend I don't see him. He gets the driver to wait. 
"Susan? Are you coming to school? Hop on!" Oh-go-away, Mr. Gay-
Art-Teacher-who-will-probably-abduct-me! But there are dozens of 
Tell I 133 
people on the bus waiting for me to make up my mind, so I cross 
over and get on the bus with him. He tells me it's a special express 
bus and much faster than waiting there and asks me how am I liking 
school. I stare at him hard because I know all about him, how he 
bakes cookies in the pottery kiln and how he took Richard Blake and 
lots of other boys into the little back art supply room after school or 
during art detention and made Richard kiss him. And I know how 
he's in love with Mr. McFaggot and they deserve each other and 
thank god I'm not in 7B. But I'm not abducted and it's the right bus 
after all, and I wonder if Mr. Vogel could tell, all the way from across 
the street, from a bus, that I'm a lesbian. 


Tell

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