Rebecca Mayo is the screenprinting lecturer at RMIT. She also runs a tiny not-for-profit gallery at the front of her studios on Miller St in Preston, which I go past every time I catch the tram. It’s a shop front with a little dolls house in the window. I’ve never taken Rebecca’s class, but I saw her in the printmaking studios a few weeks ago, and mentioned how much I liked one of the exhibitions at the start of the year. I saw it one day, and was going to go back with the camera, but the next day it was gone. At that point, there was no website for The Dolls House, so I couldn’t direct you all to the awesomeness.
Now there is.
Check out the show I was talking about, A=½(x1+x2)h, by Melanie Irwin. It’s like a knitting/architecture mash-up.
I was just reading The Dope Sheet #42, and noticed the link to the article at the bottom about more men taking their wives names.
The name changing tradition has always been a big issue for me. Ever since I was a kid, before I even knew about feminism, I always had trouble with the idea of changing my name upon marriage. I couldn’t get my head around the idea that my future husband’s name was more important than my own. As I got older, my convictions became even stronger. This is my name, part of my identity, and I’m not changing it for anyone, ever. Fortunately, I picked a man who doesn’t expect me to, and would probably be quite horrified if I even contemplated it. Unfortunately, many men aren’t of that opinion. They’re hurt that their wives won’t take their name, but would never even contemplate changing their own.
A month or two back, I was on a tram with my parents, having a conversation about what names my sister-in-law and brother are thinking about giving their next child. I mentioned that I liked a particular name, and how well it went with my surname. My mother looked at me quizzically, and said that it wouldn’t matter anyway, because my children wouldn’t have that surname. I looked at her quizzically in turn and told them that I’m not ever changing my name. They were horrified. And I was horrified that they were horrified. It seems odd that my own parents would want me to get rid of their name.