I have stretchy elastic skin, moleskin-soft along my seams, constructed to withstand months, maybe years of flexing, breathing in and out, bending, tortion, pulling, supporting the weight of flesh-coloured globes. My straps, narrow and supple, dig and dimple the trapezius masses, leave angry red furrows on skin.
I encircle the circumference of torsos, bone-thin, firm, fleshy and over-ripe; awkwardly embrace my manikin. Clips for harnessing around girth line up tidy in vertical rows. These are my teeth, grasping my ends together.
Sometimes capable and nimble, at others arthritic and awkward, fingers, sure or trembling wrestle to help me conform to my corporeal host. I am flesh-coloured for camouflage, lying beneath veils of polyester, cotton, wool and silk; obscured but very much present. I mask the sagging contours of my host, massage them into controlled, contained forms because naturally swinging flesh is vulgar, an embarrassment, and hints at an animal nature.
I am a gentle, genteel carapace, an aid to realize ideal firmness and proportions. I am bought and sold, am much in demand but only in worlds where animal natures are suspect of being disgusting. Of engineered construction, many have laboured to make me perform my function well. And so, in spite of my flesh-colour, I have a utilitarian appearance which my makers try to doll up with lace edgings, silk ribbons and rosettes. My name is Maidenform, Cross-my-heart; euphemisms for fighting the forces of gravity.
Eventually, as all things do, I fail, become stretched and flaccid, my connective tissue of elastic and rubber loosens and I conform to the true contours and weights of the flesh I carry, or that carries me. I am flesh-coloured, skinlike, and subject to the same stresses as my host. In the end, my host and I resemble each other.
GM 2005
Written as a 20 minute free-write, to the image provided by the workshop instructor. The image, above, she clipped from an unknown magazine, hence I cannot give the photographer credit, here.
April 9, 2008 at 3:43 am |
As usual a wonderful, clever, and easy flow of words which conjure up imagery far more vivid that the photograph.
April 10, 2008 at 2:00 am |
This is wonderful. I read this piece as a prose poem, an open letter to us all from a brassiere. Very creative and organic.
As long as we’re on the topic, I will state that I abhore bras and remove mine as soon as is appropriate!
April 10, 2008 at 4:19 am |
My first reaction to this is to want to snip out all the words and phrases that call out to me, such as this: I am a gentle, genteel carapace, an aid to realize ideal firmness and proportions.
Then as I go back to get them, I realize this is chock full of visuals of age and aging, body…words I love, like flaccid. And the notion of naturally swinging flesh being vulgar. I mean, it is, isn’t it, and somehow saying that isn’t a judgment.
Lastly, while reading the piece I had in mind that the photo was you, and I thought, Wow, there’s G. Of course, now knowing it wasn’t you, I’m not sure what to do with that, but I did have to let go of that image and now wonder if it will substitute whatever other picture of you I have in my head, which, btw, is quite different. Funny how our minds do that.
April 10, 2008 at 4:03 pm |
I had a good laugh.
You are a good writer and this doesn’t disappoint.
I’m always amazed what you can do in a mere 20 minutes. Congratulations.
Then I must say, I had to laugh at ybonsey’s response. I actually think the photograph is quite beautiful. Of course, it’s not beautiful in a Vogue Magazine sense, but how many of us could see our mothers in this, patiently going about a daily task that becomes more difficult with age as joints and muscles no longer obey in the way they did in youth.
It’s a composition worthy of Degas. I’m relating that to his laundry women series. Or to Lucien Freud, with his frank regard of human flesh.
K
April 11, 2008 at 3:47 am |
I had the same response to the picture. My jaw dropped at the realization that there are people who really do let it all hang out here in Blogland.
I was relieved to learn that you didn’t expose yourself so openly.
My wife read this and says it’s simply beautiful.
And I’m glad I am a man so I don’t have to fight with those darn things!
Nice writing . . .
Brian
April 12, 2008 at 9:15 pm |
Nita- thanks for your kind comment – that photo is so beautiful, much more so than the porno-glam commercial shots for bra advertisements. G
Christine – i too hate bras, but then, compared to 100 years ago our undergarments are not as constricting. G
ybonesy – I don’t have the nerve to post a photo of me, thank god! What strikes me odd is how we don’t think it unnatural or vulgar for animals to let it all hang out, and yet, are horrified to see images of ourselves in less than flattering light. Strange when you think about it. G
LFB – i agree with you, the photo is beautiful, and i wish i could have given the photographer name credit for the image. I love Degas for the candid view of people, similar to the unvarnished person-ness of Freud’s paintings of people, what i call the “eye that accepts things as they are”. That kind of honesty is totally refreshing in this day and age of artifice. G
tysdaddy – didn’t mean to shock you. Hope you have picked up your jaw:-)
We women have restrictive clothing; you men have other forms of restrictions to cope with. Thanks for your kind comment. G
April 24, 2008 at 8:41 pm |
Love the picture!
Thanks for your Katz comment, and so quickly!
Jan
June 17, 2008 at 1:54 pm |
I know I’m late on commenting about this, can I just say the words are beautiful but not necessary. I realize this was an exersice in writing but somehow the photo takes away from the beauty of the words, it stands alone and leaves me breathless.