In the 1990s, when being gay still presaged a radical existence, when the “underground” was still alive – even though, unbeknownst to most of us, in its pre-internet agony – the heroes of this young delinquent fags were the drag terrorist Vaginal Davis in Los Angeles, the punk rockers of New York, the Toilet Boys and God Is My Co-Pilot, and, in Toronto, the renegade artists and filmmakers GB Jones and Bruce LaBruce. It was Jones who coined the term “queercore”. His collaborations with LaBruce on the zine J.D. and a series of landmark Super 8 shorts – both would also star No skin on my ass (1991) before falling apart and breaking apart – played a central role in rendering the visual language of this movement. Additionally, she was a key member of what was arguably Riot Grrrl’s prototype group, Fifth Column. In retrospect, the queercore movement was rooted in an escapist fantasy as much as a politics that sought to subvert reality as we knew it. Reading those zines and watching those movies fueled my teenage masturbation fantasies of legions of hot pierced punk boys and cool tattooed dykes in a mysterious northern metropolis, when in reality the whole scene consisted of a handful of misfits. This selection of Jones films, drawings, photographs, zines and vinyl records (which could be selected to play on a turntable in the upstairs exhibition space) was a nostalgic trip for me, but could perhaps be a confusing wonder to a younger generation capable of coming to terms with mainstream acceptance of their sexuality and who might be perplexed — or “triggered” — by fifth column song titles such as “All Women Are Bitches.” (It’s called irony, kids!)
As amusing as this all sounds, it’s worth bearing in mind that these works deliberately circumvented the censorship laws that are still in effect in Canada, which allow customs officials to seize and destroy any work they deem personally obscene (Jones and LaBruce lost work this way, when it was sent back to the country after being exhibited or screened abroad). One can only understand that the customs officer who destroyed Jones’ work suffered not only from a terrible mixture of homophobia and prudishness, but also from a fatal lack of any sense of humor. In his cartoons, Jones hijacks the lasciviousness of Tom of Finland cartoons, substituting sexy, voluptuous vixens for the muscled leather daddies of the perverse maestro. The shoplifter, 1990, shows a braless lezzer teenager with a half-shaved head standing in front of a crate with an empty basket. A bar of chocolate coming out of the pocket of her jeans is furiously pushed by the umbrella of a respectable bourgeois client who stands behind her. The bulldagger behind the counter, however, seems unlikely to care about his theft. His hungry eyes are all over the girl. In the graphite drawing To read magazines1994, a leather-clad dyke stands over a magazine rack, a cigarette in her mouth, reading a copy of real detective with the title MAN HATING LESBIAN ON RAMPAGE. In the background, great care has been taken in rendering the other magazine titles, mainly gossip about celebrities known or believed to be queer: Kate from B52, Joan Jett, Jordan from New Kids on the Block, MADONNA & SANDRA AT ONCE AGAIN THE ALIENS ARE HERE AND THEY ARE GAY! It was a time when dating celebrities was a radical and necessary tactic, which Vaginal Davis would take a step further in his zine. Fertile La Toyah Jackson, print “real” celebrity gossip side by side with completely made up sexual fantasies about the rich and famous.
On the ground floor of the exhibition, a tiny projection space has been set up for Jones films The Troublemakers (1990), The Yo-Yo Gang (1992), The lollipop generation (2008), and the lesser known HOT DOGS (2013). Sadly, no one has thought to close off the area or block the daylight streaming in through the storefront windows, making serious viewing nearly impossible. The lingering remnants of my teenage self had fantasized about a bigger, broader consideration of Jones’ work and his influence, and were left disappointed by the series’ condensed size. But that may just be the first step in this subversive trailblazer’s rise to institutional respectability that she’ll likely dismiss with two middle fingers pointing skyward.
