Or, Display Purposes Only.

Via Twitter:

Presumably, the statue above, which resembles its sculptor Aske Kreilgaard and is described by the museum as a “nourishing man,” and which was originally created to celebrate International Men’s Day, is meant to have some symbolic value. A message of sorts.

The decision to adorn what was once the Women’s Museum with a, shall we say, transitioning figure, this “nourishing man,” is likely an attempt to comply with prevailing fashions regarding those individuals who are somewhat at odds with their physical selves. A trans-friendly gesture. Or, as the museum puts it, somewhat coyly, a sign of “gender inclusivity.”

It occurs to me, however, that a man being given large doses of cross-sex hormones and subsequently developing facsimile breasts isn’t going to lactate anything remotely nourishing for a child. Given sufficiently high doses of female hormones, and given sufficiently zealous pumping, some men can be made to secrete a substance from their nipples, albeit unreliably and in very limited quantities – but the resulting discharge is of no nutritional value to an infant.

As Dr Maja Bowen notes here,

Given that the statue is apparently intended as both fashionable and symbolic, and a nod to the sexually dysmorphic, then an obvious reading of that gesture, rendered in stone, is that the actual feeding of the infant is of no great consequence. At best, a secondary concern. Sort of, Screw the hungry baby. Let’s focus on affirming the dysmorphic man. And which, it has to be said, is an odd message to send.

The ladies at Reduxx also have some thoughts.

Update, via the comments, from transgender Reddit:

Note the word successfully. To which, one might ask, for whom?

I have, of late, been starving you of artistic sustenance. Here, let me fix that with a big dollop of the stuff. Specifically, some “performance documentation” from Manhattan’s Grace Exhibition Space. The mighty talent featured in the following video is artist, educator and “community organiser” Alex Romania, whose work teeters on the edge of profundity, as will doubtless become clear, via juddering and convulsion, and the strategic deployment of 25 pounds of powdered cheese.

Come, sup ye at the teats of creativity.

For newcomers and the nostalgic, some items from the archives:

Some items from the archives:

How Dare You Not Pretend.

On pronouns, politeness, and the strange mental rumblings of Ms Laurie Penny.  

Regarding rudeness, I’m generally polite by default, at least in person, and don’t go out of my way to needlessly put a kink in someone else’s day. I’ve had perfectly civil chats with people who regard themselves as transgender or gender-non-conforming or whatever. Nobody got upset. But what is often being asked – or demanded – is not a small thing, not in its implications.

Taken broadly, we are being asked to affirm, wholesale, a bundle of phenomena that includes not only actual gender dysphoria, whether the result of developmental anomalies or childhood molestation, but also autogynephilia, serious personality disorders, adolescent pretension, and assorted exhibitionist and unsavoury compulsions. The expectation seems to be that we should take these different phenomena, with very different moral connotations, as being one and the same thing, and then defer to them, habitually and uncritically. Which is asking rather more than can readily be agreed to.

Turf War.

At Middlebury College, woke piety erupts. A 74-year-old scholar is quite literally chased off campus.

Some items from the archives:

No Black Lights Were Available.

New York Times contributor is oppressed by pedestrian-crossing traffic lights.

Mr Kaufman – who can doubtless detect racism in the motions of subatomic particles – would have us believe that his friend was using the word white as a racial descriptor, rather than, as seems more likely, an unremarkable acknowledgement of a traffic light’s colour when talking to a child. In light of which, Mr Kaufman’s claims of being “bombarded” with racism – daily, everywhere – become at least explicable, if not convincing. 

The pedestrian crossing signal that so distresses Mr Kaufman – a rudimentary humanoid figure, made of white lights on a black background – can be seen here, from a safe distance. You may want to steady yourselves. It’s all very upsetting, at least for the exquisitely sensitive. Mr Kaufman then goes on an investigative journey, in which he learns why, in a society with lots of non-English speakers, crossing signals with words are being replaced by simple, universal graphics, calibrated to capture attention – say, by using lights of a certain hue. Which all sounds quite sensible. Rather than, say, a nefarious racial conspiracy intended to break the will of the negro.

You May Clap When Moved.  

Mr Reed Altemus rubs his trousers, awaits applause.