Tag: beauty

“White Dresses” – Ruth Daniell

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At the open house held the day after the wedding
you did not recognize the bride until you asked

and your mother pointed her out to you.
Surrounded by wrapped gifts and ribbons,

she was wearing an elegant pant suit appropriate
for a garden party, but you were unimpressed:

you remembered the white gown of the day before,
the tiny pearlescent beads sewn all over its bodice

and the flowing skirts, the way the music swelled
around the fabric as she danced with her groom

and it made you understand something big
and important was happening to the bride

and you thought it must have something to do with
the fact she was beautiful. If I had a dress that pretty,

you said with all the wisdom of your five years,
I would wear it every day. Your mother laughed

and the anecdote became famous in the family
as you grew up. Truth is, you still feel this way,

sometimes. Your own white dress is sheathed
in plastic at the back of your closet and you worry

you will never again be as beautiful as you were that one day
you wore it. You worry it is important to be beautiful,

that there are so few ways for you to be seen in this world
because you were a girl and now you are a woman.

these words by Ruth Daniell were inspired by the work of Nicolas V. Sanchez

“Balanced,” New Poetry by Ivana Velickovic

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You asked me if I thought
you were pretty.
Pretty is relative only to
everything besides oneself.
When I stare deeply into the mirror
I become confused.
There are two versions,
one always melting into
the other.

The first: a goddess,
black magic turned blue.
A garland of roses
atop my head,
pure and perfumed.

The second: relative.
A wise aunt who shares dark eyes.
A brave father who shares resilient,
smooth skin.

You liked the idea that beauty
is ancestral and proud.
You asked how you could come to wear
a garland made of roses.
Together we looked in the mirror
and I removed my garland,
delicate as a newborn.

I let it settle on your head.
I let it bring you balance.

 

these words by Ivana Velickovic were inspired by the work of Angela Pilgrim

“Two Faced: On the Consequences of Beauty Standards”

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“Two Faced”

The secrets of a woman’s mind are written in the details of her face.

Look closely.

Every expression, every line, and every crease has a tale to tell. They grow and change and multiply, just as the years do. Then, why is it that when I look in the mirror, I am consistently dissatisfied with what I see?

The root of my dissatisfaction lies in a variety of pubescent acne scars that have yet to fade; in the darkened circles under already dark, deep set eyes; in the thin but unmistakeable wisps of hair, around the corners of my lips and at the base of my nose, that bridge my eyebrows together.

I look in the mirror and I see an amalgamation of imperfections arbitrarily plastered together.

But there is a rawness in the way I choose to present myself. This amalgamation of imperfections is unassuming, unforgiving, and unafraid.
This is how I present myself to the world—this is how my story takes shape.

Why, then, is this what I am taught to dislike about myself? Why is this what I am taught to find fault with?

Every expression, every line, and every crease has its own tale to tell:

These acne scars are battle scars. My skin is my armor; tattered and trampled on, it shields my inner vulnerabilities and insecurities. These scars represent the years I spent hiding, covered in layers of foundation and concealer, failing to realize that beauty is more than skin deep.  These scars represent my development and growth, on both a physical and psychological level. While it is still imperfect, I’ve grown comfortable with my skin, in my skin.

It is often said that one’s eyes are the windows of the soul. Well, my soul shines out through them—they open wide, and bright, with excitement. Other times, these eyes are tired, showing exhaustion from late nights and sleep deprivation.
They crinkle when I laugh, just as tears pour out of them when I cry.

Hair grows relentlessly and freely all over my body—and, why wouldn’t it? Am I not human? Am I not alive and healthy?
Hair is the not-so-subtle reminder of my humanity, of my autonomy and my ability to choose. It can be both liberating and restricting, depending on how I choose to tame it.

My mouth is the vessel through which I articulate my thoughts; it is the vessel through which I express my emotions. The corners of my mouth curl up when I smile, and turn downwards when I am unhappy. It is with this mouth that I say, I love you, and with these lips that I let you feel and believe it.

The secrets of a woman’s mind are written in the details of her face.

Look closer.

Look deeper.

word by Fiona Williams

“The rawness of the artwork by Proppe caused me to reflect on how I view myself, particularly in light of the beauty standards perpetuated in the mainstream media. Whereas the female figure in Proppe’s art is depicted without inhibitions, I reflected on what I constantly find unsatisfactory, and then why I am unsatisfied with what I see: the immense amount of pressure we feel to be beautiful.” 

colour by Rebecca Proppe

“I’ve been making art my whole life, drawing story books and cartoons since I was a little kid. Now I’m an adult, and I still love to draw.

I’m currently studying art history mixed with some painting and drawing classes. Like most people I don’t know where my life will take me after graduation, all I know is I love art in all its forms and will be making it for the rest of my life 🙂

I hope some of you can enjoy my art as much as I did making it.”

 

On Abuse, Beauty Standards: “Blueberry Scones”

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Content warning: abuse 

Blueberry scones.  Louise recalled her mother baking them fragrant and buttery every Sunday morning.  They left flour trails on the good porcelain dishware and corners of her mouth as they dined on the lawn.  Their necks sheltered by the limbs of the poplar tree.  Louise would blush with the heady kisses of the blueberries and peals of laughter.  The poplar bared its fruits in that space, though its trunk was slim and its leaves almost translucent.

The air in the house took on an electrified vibe when he started coming around.  In the parlour under definite drawls of “honey,” the coffee was bitter but jarring.  It pooled black and inky as it rested on her knees.  Back straight as she perched on the sofa, her lips painted cherry red to match her mothers.  Daytime appearances seamlessly folded into nightly visits.  Dresses were ironed carefully each time; their clean A-lines improved by the hundreds of tummy toners performed every morning.  He brought new sound to the house too; concertos of harsh shouts that didn’t echo beyond the starched, checkered curtains. Her mother’s eyes shone like slivers of wet jewels- any drips that touched her cheeks wiped clean and painted over with cream-coloured powder.  Tender spots of bruised flesh could be covered by wool as autumn closed in.

The ruts in her mother’s chin grew deeper and her mouth settled in placidity.

“I am making this work for us”, a mantra repeated as she pinched the earrings tight on her lobes and pulled her hair taut against her head. A golden egg exposed for the taking.

“It’s better for us to have a man,” she repeated somewhat apologetically as she pulled Louise down street to her ballet classes.

 

____________________________

 

The screams washed over the house that evening.  They rolled over the kitchen mouldings and crashed against the windowpanes.  Louise dashed upstairs- it was time to seek higher ground.  A wild female wail then a teacup flung- it sung as it fractured against the wall.

The dishes continued to fall downstairs.  The crushing sound became definite and dependable, like the merging of orchestrated notes in her ballet classes.

“You’re just gonna do that all night are ya?”

No answer.  Louise heard the front door slam.  Piece after piece, they were hurled at the wall.  She began to feel a rhythm.

Shattering.  Release.  He was gone- all these broken pieces were too difficult to tread on.  She heard sobbing.  The breaking continued.  Alone in her bedroom, Louise started to spin.  The merging of sound, performing under pressure.  Was she straining?  She didn’t think so.  Among the wreck, she felt in her element.  She wasn’t broken – her flesh withstood more than those brittle dishes.  She tilted her head back – a dizzy distancing feeling crept in.  For now she could cope.  Soon enough she would rise from these fragments and pirouette away.

 

word by Keah Hansen

From the author: “The shattered tea cup- with its clean lines and dainty features- made me think of the strain women feel when upholding conventional beauty standards. Its brokenness inspired me to write about an abusive domestic relationship, and an experience of cathartic release for the female characters.  While the mother smashes through her imposed constraints and repels her perpetrator, she is still cloistered within the traditional domestic sphere.”

colour by Fannie Gadouas

“I am an interdisciplinary artist working with photography, fiber arts and performance. My work explores issues pertaining to feminine, identity and experience. By re-appropriating various traditional imagery, techniques and rituals, I question and challenge the way gendered identity is constructed, inherited and perceived in western society. Textiles is, and has traditionally been associated with the feminine realm. Critically engaging with techniques such as weaving, knitting and embroidery allows me to subvert and question my own role as both woman and artist. In this sense, my practice as a whole becomes a performance in which the process holds more relevance than the resulting objects. Informed and greatly influenced by feminist theory, the work I produce is a critical response to the social structure of western society.”

 

On Beauty Standards: “Deep Hues and Curves”

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“Deep Hues and Curves”

It was her thirteenth birthday and she’d asked for red lipstick, strapped heels, and an appointment to have her eyebrows waxed. We went to the mall together to try on dresses for the celebration. She wanted pale blue to match the balloons.

She picked one with a frill along the neckline that accentuated her small waist and cut off above the knee. She had flat-ironed her springy brown hair and twirled a smooth lock around her finger as she gazed at me from the floor of the changing room.

“This would look better on you,” she moaned.

I winced. What was unbelievably clear to me seemed positively inaccessible to Ella. How would she react if I told her she looked like Brooke Shields in the pale blue—smooth-skinned, perfect frame?

What I would give to look anything like that.

Instead I mustered a weak, “I like it.”

I saw a spectrum of colour in her eyes.

She shook her head and tossed the dress to the ground. We finally settled on a violet strapless cocktail dress that draped across her body regally.

I came over early to help set up. Her mother asked me to tie the knots as she inflated helium balloons. I watched Ella stride down the living room stairs in the purple dress, lips tinted bright red, eyes lined, she flashed me the kind of grin that said you’re in on the secret.

I smiled back, twisting the elastic of another balloon around a ribbon and letting it float to the ceiling.

How reassuring it must feel to be factory-made.

“Let me do your hair!” She sang, running her fingers through my messy blonde.

I followed her upstairs, where for a moment as she braided, I watched her lock eyes with herself in the mirror. The colour drained from her face and she looked away, turning back to me. “Will you help me go blonde?”

It was somewhat an absurd request, but one to which I was compelled to oblige. The title of best friend came with great levels of moral responsibility.

It was five and guests were supposed to arrive. Her mother was frosting the cake in the kitchen. It was chocolate, Ella’s favourite. She proceeded to dip a slim finger into the bowl of frosting, receiving a glare in return, and a harsh murmur of disapproval. Promptly, she ran her hand under the faucet, sugar dissolving in water, before turning back to me.

“She’s right,” Ella whispered.

I didn’t ask about what.

“I don’t need it.”

I found myself by her side for the remainder of the evening. It felt natural, shadowing her: my image of womanhood. She grasped my hand as she blew out her candles.

After her mother sliced the cake, I watched Ella stare at the plate placed in front of her. She prodded the chocolate with a fork, all the while inhaling the wafting smoke of blue striped candles. Not once did I see her lift the fork to her mouth.

word by Annie Rubin

colour by SHAKA

From the author: “Adolescence is the time when our ideals of beauty are explored most thoroughly. As we grow, we learn about ourselves through our parents, our friends, and through what we see in the media.

Often, though, we are our own worst critics—what we see in the mirror is far more flawed than what our friends might see when they look at us.

Each of us are made up of many colours, and once we begin to accept our uniqueness, we can rest as confidently as this figure sprawled upon her couch.”

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taking control of the layers

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Dissension oozed thick, coloured with every shade of emotion; everyone could see that she was loosing form. The angles and contours of her performance were obscured – all precision to the approach had been abandoned. All that was left was a covering-over of that which was covered-over. Her sharp words now muffled and barely audible over the noise of what could be clearly seen as an implosion come undone.

I closed my eyes and put my fingers to my temples and awaited the barrier of silence I had built in my mind to be shattered by the sound of her cries. As her father I had become accustomed to reading the signs and positioning myself to be at the ready should she need me. I primped and prepped and practiced alongside her, but once she stepped out on that stage she was entirely on her own. And here she was, melting into a puddle of pastel-coloured mess, centre-stage, harsh lights ablaze. I sensed amusement on the lips of those around me, and full-bellied brawling laughter was just moments away. I sensed the horror on the faces of the four perfectly coiffed has-beens who spent their every weekend judging the misguided proclivities of young girls whose burgeoning self-worth would be inextricably tied to their looks.

I prepared myself for the unwonted stares, pitiful glances and murmurs of judgment but instead as I made my way towards the stage I found an impressive showing of ingenuity. In what appeared to be the beginning stages of a meltdown, profuse dissension had resolved itself into abundant honesty, a truth so pure that it lacked its typical bite.

Inside the dingy low-budget hotel conference room, in front of pageant parents, child contestants and jaded judges, Noelle begun to confidently rip long pieces of fabric off her dress, and stick them into the spaces between her still first set of teeth. She took the heels of her palms and expertly smeared eye make-up down her face. She ripped her tights, undid her hair and ran around the stage fully committed to portraying the mythical creature in her favourite bedtime tale. In one beautiful act of childhood defiance, Noelle played and pretended, sang and cooed, delivering gibberish prose with Shakespearian gravitas. Laughter escaped the tightly pursed and botoxed lips of the former beauty queen judges and childhood chatter echoed off the walls and lurid drapes.

I was once beyond resentful of spending my every other weekend with the insipid pageant folks, practicing routines and applying fake lashes, but that was all that I could get, so I took it. And Noelle was a wonder on that stage, consistently low-scoring but persistent. And after years of attempted conformity an apparent meltdown unleashed a cacophony of colour and sound, my beautiful girl.

word by Cora-Lee Conway

colour by Zutto

From the author: “A thick, sweet, melt like a human ice cream cone; I kept thinking about the upside to a meltdown… Perhaps also inspired by my location as I write this sitting on the beach in Cuba, melting in the best way.”

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