Saturday, 26 October 2013

Feeling good about being pretty, feeling good about being smart

Yesterday, because General was away for 16 hour and that kind of freaks me out, I spent the day with my parentals and sis - mostly chatting - and for once we didn't pull each others hair out in the first four minutes. We talked a lot about appearances and how every woman feels better wearing sexy underwear. I couldn't win that argument, because the individuals in my family are not the kind to ever consider alternatives to the only reality they understand.
       My mum and sis are the ladylike types. They will die convinced all women care about being good looking. (while also convinced they are feminists.) They are the kind that put on make-up even just to take out the trash. They both put on fancy clothes and high heels and do their hair and feel pretty miserable if their appearance isn't up to par. They look down on make-up artists and disdain being photographed. They enjoy being looked at, though, in passing. Looked at, admired, envied and talked about, appearances wise. My dad, who on the other hand looks like a mujaheddin dictator, is likely the one I took after - because of all of the above, I really don't. When him and mum hit the town, he looks so underdresses that when giving bums a buck, they give him back 50 cents. And I truly love that about him. You will waste a compliment telling me how good I looked, but you will make my day saying you read my book and found it witty and funny. My dad, whom I love, admire and respect deeply (even if or perhaps because he calls my literature the endless torrent of precious catchphrases and fancy sentences that never accumulate to any deeper meaning or statement) is the kind of a simple, earth loving intellectual who would easily commandeer and correct The Great Gatsby. He LIKES ladies who act and dress like ladies, looks down on women who are fat and wear ugly clothes, but he himself needs to be forced into a suit and shuns occasions where this would be required. Oddly enough, he simultaneously resents social masquerades. I am like that. I am exactly like that.
      For 30 years my mum and sis have attempted to convince me I would feel more sexy, sure of myself and confident in public, if I wore sexy underwear, make-up and clothes that aren't from K-mart. Still counting.
      I don't wear make-up, because I like my skin, my lips are full and dark, my eyes are pretty and green and if i put on mascara, I dirty my lenses and tire my eyes and sometimes I need my eyes to stay up very late for work. I don't wear pretty clothes, because usually I am photographing shit and very often require mobility and not having to worry about hurting the clothes or shoes. I don't wear heels, because I like to be able to walk. And I wear sports underwear, because it serves it's purpose. It keeps my boobs from slapping people's teeth. My confidence or sureness of myself don't originate from the fact I had my mani-pedi recently, but from my portfolio and my ability to communicate with fairly everyone about anything. I'm not shy because I think I'm ugly. I simply don't enjoy noise, humm of overly-exited crowds or retarded, forced conversations. I actually really, really enjoy company. When it's about company, not performances. And I feel sexy and good looking when I am butt nekkid and my husband throws me down and screws my brains out. Actually, I feel sexy and good looking every time I catch him staring at me, smiling. I feel sexy when he is blushed, sweaty and trembling in my arms.
       General went out with a few women as he got single, before he met me. these women, as far as I have met them, were all lady-like. One was my sort of co-worker and I know for a fact she spent hours of the day doing her make-up and nails. She offered information that illustrated the attention she pays to her appearance before a date. All these dates, that he entertained for the sake of feeling social, began and ended with one coffee. general is not the sort of a person to think more of a woman because she spends hours doing her face. He wouldn't be my husband if he was. These are not coincidences.
       Clients who employ people, because they look good as opposed to those whose portfolio looks good, are not the sort of clients you would want wasting your time on. it's why I do my business meetings in T-shirts. Photographers or painters, who come to shows, looking more extrovert than the things on display, should seriously warn you about the quality of their final product. Artists, who act and pose as artists, very often, very surely aren't really any good. I know this from personal experience. I was a teenager once, too. Telling people you once sucked the left testicle of a famous rich and pretty person, isn't something I consider a reference. Weird, aren't I?
        There are circumstances in which I will go against my comfort and put on very lovely clothes and do my hair and skin. But this is almost never for want of pleasing the eyes of strangers or feeling fuckable. It is out of respect for people who threw the events. Coming to an exhibition opening, a wedding, or a literary evening in your sweatpants, even if I am the photographer, is disrespectful to the host and can be sometimes even to the client. Not trying to, just is, sometimes. And I am not trying to be any kind of a rebel or making fashion statements, it's just who I am. So i can, on occasion, make a conscious effort to blend in by trying to look like i care.
        A lot of women still believe that being good looking is a ticket to success, which supposedly leads to happiness or at least a well situated relationship. Just as many men still believe that being wealthy solves the same predicament. These people probably belong together. Mutants like me, however, admire beauty - in all it's forms - we just don't see it as a currency. the most beautiful man in the world could come up to me and offer me a diamond the size of his brain ( :D ) and he would not phase me. Oh, I would want to photograph him, certainly, I nurture profound passion for capturing appearances on film, but that would not earn him the privilege of touching my skin or learning how cold my hair is or how warm my bosom. I daresay Greta Garbo could dry hump the leg of General like a hot poodle, and he would be entertained, flattered surely, but not brain-dead. And certainly not heart-blind. Or integrity-stupid.