PRINT December 2018


Vaginal Davis

Where is my movie camera? . . . I CAN’T SEE WITHOUT IT.

Barbara Rubin

I wish I had known about Barbara Rubin back in the day in Hollywood, when I was making my queer zine Fertile LaToyah Jackson, because she was like me: a precocious weenager who didn’t take any excrement from anyone, least of all men. She was not only bold, beautiful, and voracious, she was a total badass. She was a Lilith, a Sheila, a Cybele demanding gonads to make a necklace of testicles. In Rubin’s case, among those she kept in check was Film Culture editor in chief Jonas “Uncle Fishhook” Mekas, as well as Andy Warhol, Bob Dylan, Donovan, P. Adams Sitney, Roman Polanski, and even the great sugar-in-his-tank poet Allen Ginsberg, whom she deflowered in a film-projection room, according to Amy Taubin.

This new zine-like chapbook Film Culture 80: The Legend of Barbara Rubin (Spector Books OHG) is Film Culture

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