Nina Paley (original) (raw)

A little project I thought would take a few days ended up taking all Summer and into the Fall, but now it’s ready to go into the world.

Update 11-14-24: Limited quantities of finished gloves sewn by me now available at my store!

Snake Tree gloves. The backs and the palms have different, complementary designs, and can be worn either way.

Here is my “Recovery Glovery”, art gloves for dermatillomaniacs, trichotillomaniacs, and everyone else. They’re lightweight stretchy cotton-spandex, designed for indoor use but can be used outdoors too; I’ve been wearing mine on bike rides.

Finger-Snakes design, worn palm-side out. I want as many eyes on the road as possible when I bike, and these have 6 per hand!

Wait, did you say dermatillomaniacs? What?

Finger-Snakes gloves worn the way I intended, with the eyes on the palm and snakey sun on the back. But it doesn’t matter, they can be worn either way.

The Finger Snakes twirl around each finger!

Dermatillomania, also known as Excoriation Disorder, is compulsive skin picking. Trichotillomania is compulsive hair pulling. They’re a subset of body focused repetitive behaviors or grooming disorders. Lots of people suffer from them, but they remain poorly understood and seldom talked about. Some think they’re a kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD); others consider them a type of addiction, giving rise to recovery programs.

Garden Snakes gloves, with a leafy eye on the palm and flower eyes on the fingertips. They’re SNAKES not sperm, okay?

Light stretchy cotton gloves are one tool to help dermatillomaniacs and trichotillomaniacs settle the hands and relieve the tactile “triggers” that drive them to attack their skin and hair.

Light stretchy white cotton gloves, sometimes called “eczema gloves.” This project started when I drew on a pair of cheap boring white gloves with a sharpie. It didn’t look great, so my only alternative was to design glove fabric from “scratch” (pardon my triggering language).

Gloves work! But they’re boring. If you’re gonna have fabric covering your hands, it should look cool. Hence, this project.

Night and Day gloves, backs

After designing, printing, and sewing 6 rounds of prototypes, I have made my gloves fabric available on Spoonflower, for which I get a whopping $1.40 per yard sold. I currently have no way to mass-produce gloves for sale, so sewing-your-own is the cheapest way to distribute them for the time being. However I kinda enjoy sewing them now, and will make small amounts of my handmade ones available for sale soon.

Faith and Doubt gloves, backs.

Faith and Doubt gloves, palms

Currently I’ve only designed and sewn gloves to fit women’s more-or-less medium-sized hands. The cotton-spandex jersey stretches to fit a range of sizes (smallish to large-ish women’s hands), but there are limits. If there’s demand for it, I will make my next prototypes sized for men, or bigger hands in general.

Heat and Light gloves

Meanwhile you can order fabric here:

The glove sides are paired up in my preferred combinations, but if you sew them yourself you can match any side with any other side design (except the “slim fit” ones, which due to printing distortions won’t match the rest, but will match each other). Be sure to order Cotton Spandex Jersey by the full yard only!

And here’s a sewing tutorial:

I launched an older T-shit design on TeeSpring over the weekend:

Minutes after I shared it on social media, it disappeared, with no option for me to re-launch.

So today (Monday) I emailed TeeSpring, and they replied:

There can be many things that may have caused your listing to be taken down. I’m unable to provide any insight about your listing being disabled, but I’ve forwarded your case over to our Trust & Safety Team for review. They’ll get back to you as soon as they can.

Good ol’ Trust & Safety. Yes indeed I can only guess why I was swiftly bumped off of yet another platform. However they did fix it:

It appears the listing in question was falsely removed by our image filtering system. We apologize for the error, and we have un-suspended your listing. This listing will appear in your dashboard in an ended state.

You can now relaunch your listing at any time from your dashboard.

So I have re-launched it. Let’s see how long it lasts this time.
https://teespring.com/melissa-bee

The temptation to self-loathing, like the temptation to drink or use drugs, is social.

When women of a certain age (mine) gather, as time passes and trust develops, the conversation often turns to plastic surgery. This is a bonding ritual: a display of intimacy and offering, because plastic surgery is hidden as much as possible from the general public. Apparently it is much more widespread than a casual observer would believe. Countless women you know have “had work done.” Over wine and good food, cocktails and snacks, in comfortable living rooms and hotel bar lounges at the end of a long day, women offer to each other precious revelations of what face- and body-attributes they loathe and want to get fixed, and name the procedures they desire.

This reminds me of similar rituals I recall from my college days, where young women simply discussed aspects of our bodies we hated (ugh, my thighs!), despair at eating and weight gain, and commitments to diet and exercise.

Having suffered body dysmorphia, eating disorders, and deep self-hatred, I cannot partake in these rituals today. If I validate even a little physical “criticism,” I will fall into a well of self-loathing I can’t escape. The idea that my body is defective is bad enough; that it can be “fixed” with scalpels, needles, drugs, and money adds another layer of obsession I can’t afford.

Because women bond over finding themselves physically defective, and because I want to bond with them, these rituals incite in me both fear and longing. I long to be included, part of the group, and “normal.” I fear the price. I am reminded of alcoholics, who must give up their happy congenial social drinking at parties and bars. Their friends can imbibe poison and stop, but the alcoholic cannot. For me, indulging in physical self-loathing, even a little bit (just that line on my forehead! Just those hoods over my eyes! Just my flappy neck!) will send me on a bender.

If I mention this to other women, they invariably respond, “but you look great! You don’t NEED plastic surgery!” That is part of the ritual: Woman A says, “I hate _____ body part, I want to fix it,” all the other women say “nooooo you look great!” and then it’s Woman B’s turn to share what she hates about herself. It is generous of these women to try to include me with this symbolic offering. These women look better than I do; if looking great prevented body-focused rumination, they wouldn’t have these bonding rituals, and plastic surgery would’t be a big business.

If I elaborate, they understandably feel judged. I do judge the cosmetic surgery industry, and the social norms of excessive body scrutiny for women. I think these things are toxic. But humans have always enjoyed imbibing small amounts of toxins in groups. Maybe plastic surgery talk is the Ayahuasca of Upper-Middle-Class American women. Maybe plastic surgery itself, like bulemic fasting, simulates meaningful human sacrifice. Maybe I am missing out.

I could just as easily admire these women for being able to “hold their liquor.” That which sends me into a depressive tailspin is just another way to spice up an evening for them. I am fragile and sensitive; they can drink poison and get up the next day and conquer the world.

More power to ‘em! But I hope we can bond over something else, because feeling like an outsider to my sex and class is a bit of a bummer. Although not as big of a bummer as crying in the fetal position with suicidal ideation after overscrutinizing myself in a mirror at age 22 and ending up in a treatment center.

When I was younger, art skills were meaningful and important. Filmmaking was too expensive for any but the elite; there was more demand than supply of “media.” Animation was drawn by hand, every frame. Even a short animated film required money in digits that blew my mind, and whole teams of “talent” and managers.

So when I figured out how to make animated movies on my own, I suddenly advanced to elite status. I could do for little money, by myself, what many huge overfunded studios couldn’t achieve. And before that, I drew. When my work made it to print, I got thrills such as I never experience today. When my first T-shirt design, “Leal School is high class,” was chosen for silkscreening, I nearly peed my pants. When my first comic strip was printed in the Daily Illini newspaper, I secreted more adrenaline than I could handle.

Less creative excitement comes to me these days. I did make my first round of “Recovery Gloves” this summer, and I was extremely excited to put the first ones on my hands and photograph them. I guess I still care, a bit.

“Recovery Gloves”

The big change since my youth is that supply of “content” vastly exceeds demand. More writing, more art, more videos and music are made than anyone can consume. This has been enabled by tech, from “desktop publishing” (remember when it was unimaginably revolutionary?), to digital video editing, to phones — phones! — able to capture high-res everything, to AI.

The Attention Economy was coined a while ago and continues to be useful. Is my attention now a more valuable asset than my ability to create? Is that why I feel like I create so much less now? AI produces higher quality work than most humans. So what are we even for? Do robots even need human attention, or can they attend to themselves?

I am still a human being with a voice. I make art when I think something needs to exist in this world, and the only person who can make it so is me. Hence the gloves. Hence Sita Sings the Blues.

But plenty of other stuff can and does come into being without me. Pretty pictures don’t need me to exist. Articles don’t need me. Well, this one does, but it’s not that great. I’m not writing this to meet any demand, I’m writing it because my thoughts are bothering me and I’m trying to sort them out. That’s about the only thing that differentiates humans from AI right now, and maybe even that distinction will vanish.

Ah heck, let’s ask ChatGPT:

Me: You are an artist experiencing a creative block. You feel you were more creative 20 years ago, before the Internet and AI. Write an article exploring why recent advances in technology may have suppressed your creative drive.

ChatGPT:

The Tech Trap: How Internet and AI Innovations Have Stifled My Creative Spirit

As an artist, creativity is both my passion and my lifeblood. Yet, recently, I have found myself grappling with a persistent creative block. Reflecting on my artistic journey, I realize that I felt more creatively fulfilled 20 years ago, before the pervasive rise of the internet and artificial intelligence (AI). While these technological advancements have brought about tremendous benefits, they have also introduced challenges that can stifle the creative spirit.

The Overload of Information

One of the most profound changes brought about by the internet is the sheer volume of information available at our fingertips. Twenty years ago, inspiration was drawn from tangible experiences—visiting art galleries, reading books, and engaging in deep conversations. Today, the endless stream of online content can be overwhelming. The constant barrage of images, videos, and articles can dilute one’s unique artistic voice, leading to a sense of creative paralysis rather than inspiration.

The Pressure of Digital Perfection

The internet, coupled with AI, has created a culture of digital perfection. Social media platforms showcase polished, picture-perfect versions of art, often enhanced by AI tools. This can create unrealistic standards for artists, leading to self-doubt and a fear of not measuring up. Twenty years ago, the artistic process was more forgiving, allowing for mistakes and imperfections that were integral to growth and creativity. Now, the pressure to produce flawless work can inhibit the experimental and exploratory nature of art.

The Erosion of Deep Work

In the pre-internet and pre-AI era, creative work was often a solitary and deeply immersive process. Artists could lose themselves in their work without the distractions of notifications, emails, and social media. Today, the digital age has fragmented our attention spans, making it difficult to achieve the deep focus necessary for true creativity. The constant interruptions and the temptation to check our devices can prevent us from entering the state of flow where the most profound creative insights occur.

The Homogenization of Art

AI, with its reliance on vast datasets, tends to produce content that mirrors existing trends and styles. While this can lead to interesting combinations, it can also result in a homogenization of artistic expression. Twenty years ago, artists drew inspiration from a wide range of sources, leading to a diverse array of styles and perspectives. Now, the risk is that AI-generated art, based on similar datasets, may lack the originality and diversity that come from human experience and intuition.

The Shift from Creation to Curation

The digital age has shifted the focus from creation to curation. Artists now spend a significant amount of time curating their online presence, managing social media profiles, and engaging with their audience. While this has its benefits, it can detract from the actual process of creating art. Twenty years ago, artists could dedicate their time and energy solely to their craft without the distraction of maintaining an online persona.

The Devaluation of Effort and Skill

With AI’s ability to produce art quickly and effortlessly, there is a growing perception that artistic creation is less valuable if it can be replicated by a machine. This shift can be demoralizing for artists who invest considerable effort and skill into their work. Twenty years ago, the value of art was closely tied to the artist’s dedication and the unique human touch that went into each piece. Today, the line between human and machine-made art is increasingly blurred, leading to questions about the true value of artistic effort.

Finding a Balance in the Digital Age

Despite these challenges, it is possible to find a balance that allows for the preservation of deep, meaningful creativity. Here are some strategies for navigating the modern artistic landscape:

1. Digital Detox: Regularly disconnecting from the internet can help reclaim uninterrupted time for creativity. This can involve setting aside specific hours or days where digital devices are put aside to focus solely on artistic work.
2. Mindful Consumption: Being selective about the content consumed online can reduce overwhelm and allow for more profound inspiration. Curating a digital diet that includes high-quality, diverse sources of inspiration can help maintain a unique artistic voice.
3. Embrace Imperfection: Recognize that mistakes and imperfections are a natural part of the creative process. Allowing for experimentation and accepting that not every piece needs to be perfect can foster a more open and innovative approach to art.
4. Seek Offline Inspiration: Continue to engage with the physical world—visit galleries, attend workshops, and have face-to-face interactions with other artists. These experiences can provide fresh perspectives and break the cycle of digital dependency.
5. Integrate Technology Thoughtfully: Use AI and digital tools to augment rather than replace the creative process. Embrace technology as a collaborator that can enhance creativity without overshadowing the human touch.

In conclusion, while the internet and AI have transformed the creative landscape in many ways, it is essential to navigate these changes thoughtfully. By finding a balance and reclaiming some of the practices from the pre-digital era, artists can overcome creative blocks and reignite the artistic spark that once burned so brightly.

“God loves you more than you can ever love Him!” declares the guest speaker of my online cult workshop. I am doing the Twelve Steps with Big Book Awakening, a workbook, study method, and online community (or cult) of over 300 recovering alcoholics, drug users, compulsive eaters, “chaos creators,” and other literal and figurative addicts who attend weekly workshops like this one, in addition to supplemental workshops and homework groups. We are studying the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. We have been working on Step Four, “made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves,” for six weeks now, and today’s topic is “self-defeating beliefs.”

The speaker walks us through an “inventory sheet” of his example self-defeating belief: “God doesn’t love me.” He explains the detrimental effects this self-defeating belief has on his self-esteem, ambitions, security, personal relationships, and so on. Then, his stunning realization: it’s a lie! The truth is, God loves him very much! God loves each and every one of us, for he sent his only son Jesus Christ etc.

Since the start of this workshop five months ago, I have been intentionally, intensively, sincerely, and open-heartedly trying to cultivate faith in a Power Greater Than Myself. I envy this speaker the security and comfort he enjoys, because he believes in a loving God. But he has already alienated me, for as much as I would love to feel loved by an imaginary friend, my pesky need for truth keeps getting in the way.

“‘The truth is, God loves me’ isn’t the Truth!” I later complain to a friend. “It’s a very nice belief, but God is unverifiable and unfalsifiable. The God of Jesus Christ might be a transformative concept, but it’s not in the realm of Truth!”

Born and raised an atheist, I keep returning to my lack of faith. I have been praying for faith for almost 40 years. I have my moments, but the desired faith never arrives. I am not like the Jesus guy, who I assume was raised Christian, left his faith, and came back. We always return to our childhood religion, don’t we? Well mine is atheism, and despite my best intentions it keeps pulling me back. Atheism loves me more than I can ever love it, apparently.

Being in an online cult, I haven’t been giving my atheism the respect it deserves. Instead I feel bad about it, feel Iacking. The best faith I can muster is suspension of disbelief, as when reading fiction or watching a movie.

My fellow cult members are having their own come-to-Jesus moments during today’s Q and A, crying openly while confessing their minds have been blown by hearing the truth that God loves them so much. They too realize their doubts were just a pernicious lie. But my doubts aren’t lying to me. This stuff just isn’t true, and I can’t suspend my disbelief any more.

What am I to do? I’m in a Spiritual Program. Step Two is literally, “came to believe a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity,” and Step Three is “made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to God as we understood Him.” But also I am required to be rigorously honest.

I like being honest. I’m willing to “act as if” I believe in God, but to say “the truth is God loves me” is a lie. Worse than a lie, it’s blasphemy against capital-T Truth and its requirements of verifiability and falsifiability. Sometimes I say the Truth is my Higher Power, and I admit we can know very little about it. Other times I say God is an Imaginary Friend. As long as I know I’m imagining Her, I can imagine Her meeting all my needs for love and security and protection, all those ways my fellow humans fail me. But that’s a psychological strategy, not the Truth.

“Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” — Philip K. Dick

If God is real, if God is the Truth, then I don’t need to believe in Her (or Him, It, whatever). Praying for faith is just making me crazy. “Let go and let God,” they say; how about I let go of trying to believe in God? The mere thought of giving that up sends me waves of relief.

Recovering addicts tend to huff God the way they huff inhalants.
They tend to see things in black and white; as page 53 of the Big Book says, “either God is everything or else he is nothing.” They go all in on the faith project.

Active alcoholics have drinking buddies; recovering alcoholics have prayer partners. It’s all a great improvement over substance abuse, and I’m happy for them. They get high on God. But I can’t get high with them.

My cult workshop reminds me of being at a party where everyone is drinking and using except me. (A non-drinker, I am in recovery for behavioral compulsions, not drug use.)

At times I have tried very hard to enjoy alcohol and drugs, withstanding their horrible tastes and smells in pursuit of the alleged buzz. But as with my pursuit of faith in God, always I failed. At best I could pretend.

At KROK, a Russian animation festival on a river cruise boat, I learned to “drink” socially by filling my glass with water and not telling anyone it wasn’t vodka. I could do that with God too, but why? Especially as my cult asks me to be rigorously honest, as well as faithful. Maybe I can’t be both.

“There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds.” — Alfred, Lord Tennyson

My attempts to cultivate faith have brought me back to atheism. I am an Unbeliever.

But for an unbeliever, I sure cling to a lot of other beliefs. God may not be among them, but many of my beliefs are at least as untrue, and far more destructive.

Beliefs are heuristics, a word I just learned a few days ago: shortcuts for reasoned thought. They are essential for navigating everyday life, when there’s simply not enough time to reason out every decision. As much as I cherish my skepticism, I simply can’t be skeptical of everything at every moment. I must believe to function.

I have scrutinized my relationship to God, or the concept of God, for decades. I have scrutinized my atheism. I have tried to instill in myself a handy shortcut — faith, prayer — to help me navigate life, and it hasn’t fully taken. But you know what has fully taken, what persists in this alleged unbeliever’s head? Self-loathing, despair, and what AA calls “100 forms of fear.”

If someone doesn’t like me, I believe that something is wrong with me.
I believe I should change myself to please others.
I believe I should be different from how I am.
I believe I am defective.
I believe I am a bitch, a monster, a parasite, a witch, a failure, bad at choosing friends, abused, exploited, betrayed, crazy, neglected, obsolete, ruined, subhuman, unworthy…
And so on, into the 100’s.

Of course I don’t consciously believe any of this; I’ve looked at my fears before, I’ve “done the work.” But there they are anyway, sneaking back again and again, and there I am believing them without realizing it.

My own stunning realization is, if I’m such an incorrigible atheist, I needn’t believe any of this nonsense. Unlike my cult’s Jesus-loving guest speaker, I don’t have to assert any contrary Truth; many of my beliefs are also in the realm of the unverifiable and unfalsifiable. Instead, I simply withdraw my belief. I don’t have to believe anything. I mean, I have to believe some things; as I said above, I need beliefs to function in daily life. But shitty beliefs, beliefs that hurt me? I need only doubt them.

That is the Power of Doubt.

In slogging through BBA’s weeks of “fourth-step inventory” worksheets, I saw that I feel unprotected. It’s a bad feeling. The solution, I thought a few weeks ago, is to seek protection in God. I prayed for faith in God, for protection, and for faith in God’s protection. I got caught in the rain on a bike errand and thought, “God is protecting me.” I got wet. I thought, “God’s protection is permeable.” I developed an apologetics of God’s protection. I wasted significant brainpower on this, because honestly being unprotected scares me, and the Truth is I can’t protect myself fully, and God doesn’t actually exist (although I could still Act As If I have an Imaginary Friend, which would go a long way to alleviate my fears).

Then a few days ago I met the belief, “I am unprotected” with doubt, and it evaporated. I didn’t have to prove anything otherwise; I simply didn’t believe it. I reminded myself I am an atheist. I have faith in my atheism.

“I am unprotected,” says my brain. “I don’t have to believe that,” I say back. And the fear slinks away from the power of my doubt.

Thus my doubt brings me to the same place I thought (believed) I needed faith to find.

“Faith works for them that got it.” —Unknown

There are limits to my doubt, just as there are limits to my faith. Sometimes I got faith. My mind needs shortcuts and doesn’t have time to properly doubt everything. I still believe many things, and will continue. And the power of my doubt is not so strong I can rely on it constantly. I am an atheist, but one who lapses often.

Faith is a lapse of doubt, just as doubt is a lapse of faith. Doubt and faith are like left and right hands. I can get by temporarily with just one, but do so much more with both.

Related:

Mimi & Eunice Recovery comix – read oldest to newest

Synaonon – what happens when 12-step programs go off the rails

“Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia.”

In George Orwell’s 1984, the past is altered, but war is constant; the names of the combatants are changed retroactively, but combat is continuous.

Members of nations at war bond more tightly with their compatriots. War offers a shared dream of triumph over a common enemy. Thus, continual state of war is an effective means of social control. It doesn’t really matter who Oceania is at war with, as long as Oceania is, and always has been, at war.

1984 illustrates how supporting wars is a sucker’s game. War is a product of the Establishment — governments, the military-industrial complex, corporations — using us, the people, to maintain their power. Keeping us in line. Keeping us obedient with fear!

We the enlightened, who have read 1984, don’t get caught up in nationalism. Instead, we RESIST. We resist the war machine, the governments, the military-industrial complex. We don’t play their games. We organize a student protest! We build a shantytown on campus. We demand a ceasefire now!

Students have always joined such movements against the Establishment. “Revolution Now” has been chanted for centuries. There is always a revolution in progress, and there is always a power structure to be revolted against. There is always a dream of triumph over a common enemy.

While most revolutions fail, every once in a while one succeeds. Then what happens? The Resistance becomes the Establishment. The Resistance IS the Establishment. Just as the students making protest camps on the green lawns of universities ARE the upper middle class.

Who funds the Resistance? The Establishment.

Why would they do that? Because they want to be always at war. The same reason warring nations do. Social control, you dupes.

The Resistance has always been at war with the Establishment.