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On the Shoulders of Sleeping Giants
By Libby Sanders
Several months ago in my early-morning sculpture class, my teacher discussed the importance of finding our "spark"- our personal inspiration for creating art. She shared with us that her role as a mother is her motivation, not only in art, but in all aspects of life. This spark acts a sleeping giant within, and according to her, in all of us, and we were to arouse that giant to muse our next large-scale bust project. For several weeks I idled, unsure of what sparked me and even less sure that any giants considered the depths of my soul a warm enough home to rest in. I conceded to spiritual vacancy, and it wasn't until one night, after catching a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, that I noticed an oversized and under-rested tenant, knocking at the door.
I have never been too worried about my physical body; I'm in fair shape and accustomed to the occasional bruise, sprain, and illness that life and a mischievous immune system have thrown my way. I have plenty of scars, though none are deserving of bragging-rights, and rarely fall victim to cosmetic distress. I always considered myself very different than the body I resided in and didn't consider a bruise on my knee anything like a bruise on my heart, or soreness from overwork to soreness from over-thought. This detachment between myself and I certainly hinders fashion sense, but it has generally aided me in the adolescent struggle with "beauty."
All of a sudden, however, this changed.
It was the night before Thanksgiving, and I had just returned home from a concert in town. It was late and though my stomach was growling, I decided to hold off on food in preparation for the feast that was in store for us the next day. I began changing into my pajamas and something caught my attention in the mirror; there was something awry with my appearance and it took several moments to rationalize exactly what my disfigurement stemmed from. It was the worst fear of every woman, short of waking up one morning to find your jeans don't fit like they used to. There was a lump on my breast.
My physical body, generally an afterthought in self-analysis, suddenly mattered to me. This abnormality not only threatened my shell, but began to sink its encroaching teeth into the very fabric of my soul - a soul whose true nature was rather traumatically unearthed. Had it appeared on my neck, arm, or stomach, I would have laughed off the cosmetic joke that medical whodunits played on me. For some reason, a reason I later discovered to be a veiled feminism, this ailment that directly targeted the part of my anatomy that is distinctly feminine equally targeted the part of my soul that is distinctly feminine. All of a sudden, that inner beauty was turned inside out, and I was forced to question if it was ever beautiful to begin with and would ever be beautiful again.
What physical beauty is to me is probably different than what a mother, an athlete, or a supermodel considers the word's true definition. My childhood activities lend me to awe the stereotypical ballet dancer's body, while my teenage years added onto that a body with more substance and form because of my background in sculpture. While the lingering angst of achieving a Vogue or Abercrombie body has penetrated my best defenses, I give more respect to depictions closer to an average and well-nourished human being. The women in great Renaissance art, for example, are considered large by today's standards and are still considered beautiful; ancient Greek statues have curves and a supple appearance, like that of a true woman. What we neglect to notice is that while they may look more like "us," I've yet to see one of these "real" women depicted with the sneaking nuisance of cellulite.
It's hard then, to accept our own bodies and the bodies of other real women as something beautiful when we're surrounded by the bodies of an impossible ideal. This inadequacy had confronted me in abstract ways but never in a tangible, tumoral form. The threat of cancer and even the threat of superficial scar haunted me because that ideal seemed even further out of reach. To this day I have never seen a Greek statue with a scar across its breast and I will never find a masterpiece with stretch marks and uneven skin tone. The pages of my magazines are not hindered by frizzy hair and no designer will hire a girl with scars, unless of course they are appliqués, symbolic of some false struggle towards strength, independence, or deep pockets. I have a scar, and it isn't beautiful. I have uneven skin tone, and I cover it up with foundation.
What I don't have, however, is a fear that if I don't, my sense of self will be demolished. I don't have to face a roused and roaring giant, because I've learned to wake it gently. I look into the mirror now, and surprisingly see the same person I did before.
I just notice many more giants.
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