Booty-vicious

IT'S ALL ABOUT DEBASE AS SUMMER'S "BIGGEST" MEDIA PERSONALITIES MIX UP-TEMPO ANTHEMS WITH VITRIOLIC UNDERCURRENTS.  IN OUR EAGERNESS TO CELEBRATE FULLER FIGURES HAS A BODY APPROVAL MOVEMENT OVERREACHED?  AND ARE THESE SINGERS REALLY SAYING ANYTHING NEW IN THEIR PROMOTION OF WHAT ARE IN FACT RELATIVELY MODEST EXAMPLES OF SIZE?

HEREWITH, A VISUAL ESSAY EXPLORING THE LIMITED RANGE OF FEMALE BODY SHAPES TRADITIONALLY EXTOLLED IN OUR FAT-PHOBIC CULTURE, WITH ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THOSE WHO HAVE HELPED NUDGE THAT BANDWIDTH ALONG SLIGHTLY GREATER INCREMENTS --- AND OTHER PARTIES KEEPING US "BEHIND."  

WITH THE BUTT HAVING ITS DAY IN THE SUN, IT ONLY SEEMED NATURAL THAT I ATTACK THE SUBJECT WITH A COMPREHENSIVE TREATISE --- OR, BETTER STILL, TREAT-ASS.  YOUR PATIENCE IS APPRECIATED --- I MAY BE CHEEKY, LONG-WINDED, AND TANGENTIAL, BUT THIS TOPIC DU JOUR DESERVES EARNEST CONSIDERATION.  FOR IN THIS DISCUSSION, THERE TRULY IS NO END.

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Thongs are a many-splendored string:  From left, models Nina Agdal, Lily Aldridge, and Chrissy Teigen demonstrate an oft-repeated pose in 2014 (James Macari for Sports Illustrated)

Of The Wasp-Waisted & Weight-Wary
"I'm in good shape.  That shape is round." - Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

In Nigeria, the status of a man is measured in good part by the body size of his wife, and a person of means will scramble to keep his mate well-fed lest he be interpreted as an inadequate provider.  Here and in many parts of Africa, women are encouraged to attend "fattening centers" prior to a wedding.  "When you look fat, it makes you look healthy," explained one female who had spent six months fortifying her BMI under specialized care.  Engaged to a prince of the Efik tribe, this bride-to-be spoke to the BBC World Service's Outlook Program in a 2007 report titled The Fattening Rooms of Calabar.  In their interview, she divulged that larger ladies command greater admiration within familiar communities:  "People respect you.  People honor you.  Wherever you go, they say, 'your husband feeds you fine.'"  As an elevated public figure, her fiancee "requires a particularly large wife," the researchers observed, adding that a "slim" mate would have "no appeal."

Contrast this position, witnessed also in much of the Arab world, to the dominant perspective in the present-day west.  Wallace Simpson, the infamous heiress who won the heart of Britain's King Edward some eighty-odd years ago, famously remarked:  "A woman can never be too rich or too thin."  For what it's worth, the sentiment remains decidedly pertinent within modern conversation.  Popular thought has come a long way from the days when Rubenesque sirens held greatest sway, commanding the attention of suitors while serving as muse for our most prominent artists.  (And I mean looong --- as in late-Rennaissance England, France, and Germany.)  

A V-ery Uncommon Sight:  Gabourey Sidibe as the face of V Magazine issue #63, January 2010 (for which she was photographed by Inez van Lamsweerde and Vinoodh Matadin)

In fashion-centric corners, it is a "major deal" when a heavy-set, size twelve-or-above actress such as Precious' Gabourey Sidibe or Bridesmaids' Melissa McCarthy lands the front of a major publication (V, above; Elle November 2013) or beauty campaign (Queen Latifah for CoverGirl and Pantene). Yes, in the last hundred years we can point back to shapely icons of sex appeal such as Mae West, Liz Taylor, Marilyn Monroe, Raquel Welsh, Anna Nichole Smith, even Jessica Rabbit to suggest that fuller ladies have always had their day on the sun.  But here's the thing:  these icons were rarely at their highest level of appreciation when filling XXL garments ---- or at least not for long.

A glimpse of Marilyn's rear in "Some Like It Hot," when at its fullest measure.  Third husband Arthur Miller acknowledged her posterior in a love letter, dated April 30, 1956:  "I will kiss your neck and your back and the sweet cantaloupes of your rump," he wrote.

Just like actress Renee Zellwegger, who charmingly wiggled her Bunny tail as Bridget Jones, the legendary MM (nee Norma Jeane Mortenson) was only at her "ripest" for a brief stint, most notably when portraying Sugar Kane in "Some Like It Hot" (during the filming of which she was pregnant).  In that unequalled classic, her ample rear may have been referred to admiringly as "Jello on springs" -- but in reality, Monroe was for most of her career fulfilling smallish-medium proportions and a perfect paragon of fitness.  (Her exercise and eating habits were described and illustrated to Pageant magazine in 1952, reflecting careful moderation and commitment.)  

Renee Zellwegger as the eponymous heroine in "Bridget Jones' Diary" (2001).  Here she sported refreshingly "real" curves, a contrast to her default "Hollywood weight." 

Furthermore, whenever sexy sirens are at the forefront of culture, the form they fulfill is rarely of rotund Butterball but, rather, the quintessential hourglass.  Consider the Gibson Girl of the Victorian Age, or, in subsequent decades, Gypsy Rose Lee, Ava Gardner, Jane Russell, Bettie Page, Moira "Red Shoes" Shearer, Mamie Van Doren, Jane Mansfield, Kim Novak, Sophia Loren, Ursula Andress, Ann-Margret, Brigette Bardot, Sharon Tate, Jane Fonda, Kim Basinger, Pamela Anderson, and on.  Skipping ahead, Katy Perry, Kat Dennings, Christina Hendricks, Scarlett Johansson, Shakira, Dita von Teese, Sofia Vergara, Kate Upton, Kelly Brook, and Kim Kardashian-West demonstrate our current ideal for the va-va-vixen, but at the same time they remain fully capable of pulling-off appearances in revealing catsuits, corsets, mermaid gowns, or bikinis.  The common denominator:  a cinched waist.

Ava Gardner, a major draw for American movie audiences of the postwar era

Angelina Jolie at the 2012 Academy Awards (left) and Jennifer Lopez, in a similar stance, at the Grammys a year later (photo credits:  Amy Sancetta/Associated Press).  Here they are clearly isolating their toned calves and thighs.

Winning Numbers
Steed:  I've been embraced to the bosom of the glorious Motherland -- figuratively speaking.
Emma:  Do you mean, '36-24-36,' or a more cultural exchange?
- "The Avengers" (episode:  "The Correct Way To Kill," 1967)

As a blogger who concerns herself with "weighty" subjects, I generally hesitate to list bust/waist/hip measurements as a concerted effort for preventing  comparison.  Juxtaposing body size rarely has positive consequence or purpose, especially when we position ourselves against those whose identity and very metier is derived from remarkable physical prowess.  However, I find it necessary for my argument to reference a scattering attributed to our most legendary "Calendar Girls" in order to best demonstrate how relatively trim we've liked our badonkadonk, even in the postwar era (when a robust figure was often strived for).

Jane Russell was said to have boasted 38-27-37 curves (in inches); her onetime costar Marilyn boasted 35-22-35 with 36D bra.  (This comes, allegedly, from the mouth of a dressmaker, and likely reflects the legend at her most iconic.  Other sources, including costume historians, have confirmed these numbers, allowing of course for slight variation.)  Betty Brosmer, arguably the twentieth century's first "supermodel," was even more dramatically drawn at 38-18-36, as evidenced below.  "There ain't nothing like a dame," sang the sailors of "South Pacific," and their era was one in which girdled flesh and a thick set of gams could leave a man panting.

Betty Brosmer and her 18" waist.  She has been referenced by some as the first supermodel.

In 1966's "The Silencers," shapely chanteuse Vikki Carr practically pours out of a translucent negligee --- referring to her endowments as "deadly equipment" more legal than a knife or gun.  In this scenario, any given man --- no matter how practiced a spy or assassin --- is helpless against the power of one amongst her tribe.  Steely reserve, practiced composure, even black belt defenses are no match for feminine wiles, she intones:  And if you're a man not made of wood/ When I flip my hips I'll silence you for good.  Once again, the circumference of the vixen's tummy remains tightly in check --- almost impossibly so, especially when contrasted with her ample breasts and thighs.  According to the song's lyrics, [I]f you should see a lady who/ Has the kind of waist that measures 22/ And she's a 38 where it is great to measure 38/ Dear sir, she is a silencer.  When it boils down to it, to serve within the exclusive ranks of Pussy Galore's Flying Circus --- or any other Fleming-inspired squadron of toxic beauties --- an hourglass figure is the first prerequisite.  As Mae West allegedly instructed:  "Cultivate your curves --- they may be dangerous but they won't be avoided."

Bawdy Language:  outspoken vaudeville and film comedienne Mae West used an hourglass figure to her advantage

Sean Connery with the first --- and definitive --- "Bond Girl" Ursula Andress in 1962's "Dr. No"

Diana Rigg as Emma Peele of "The Avengers"

Julie Newmar as Catwoman ("Batman:  The Original Series")

The Assman Cometh

"Fat-bottomed girls you make the rocking world go round." - Queen

In 1977's funkadelic dance jam "Brick House," the Commodore's proclaimed to the public:  She knows she got everything/ A woman needs to get a man, yeah/ How can she lose with what she use/ 36-24-36, what a winning hand!  Just like in the sexy fantasy worlds of James Bond, Matt Helm, and Mike Hammer, a woman is most "mighty" when commanding a concave torso framed by a snug, brimming bikini.  These same dimensions have a long history in pop culture, and several entries on Urban Dictionary help legitimize their presence as part of the slang lexicon going back some fifty years.  They are most frequently attributed (or more to the point, "attriBUTTed") to Sir Mix-a-Lot's infamous "Baby Got Back," a seminal rap anthem from 1992 purportedly conceived as a celebration of natural female endowments:

As in in preceding periods, his appetite was for a voluptuous form --- but one that remained in check.  He sought-out girls he could comfortably put his arms around, with greatest girth reserved for the rear.  When explaining to Vulture's Rob Kemp a black man's ideals of beauty, and what was ultimately reflected by the dancers in his music video, Mix-a-Lot wanted to see "women who ran five miles a day, with a washboard, six-pack stomach and a nice, round, supple ass."  He never intended to promote anything less than the sex appeal that follows one who is confident in her curves --- to help his healthy Real World sisters appreciate their veritable assets.  Even so, he maintained strict rules for his vision, more or less repeating the midcentury pinup archetype (as best defined by Betty Grable's unforgettable rear end, once said to lend morale to troops in WWII):

Betty Got Back:  The best-selling pin-up, or "paper doll," of the Second World War was Betty Grable's, who  had turned her stomach away from photographer Frank Powolny because (according to legend) she was showing early stages of pregnancy.  At the time the bathing suit shot was taken, she measured 5'4" and 36-24-25.  Hers were "the limbs that launched a thousand sighs" --- insured by Lloyds of London for $1 million.

All the models for Mix-a-Lot's shoot were carefully screened for "butt approval," with a grid of their rears made from Polaroids on a board.  And they were to be trim --- in fighting form --- as if working with a trainer.  "[I]t doesn't mean you're out of shape if you have a nice ass," he clarified to Kemp when defining an quintessential posterior.  "Anyone who's ever seen a stripper pick up a dollar bill with her ass knows you can't do that with fat."  Implants were never something to be considered, as he sang in his second verse:  I ain't talking' 'bout 'Playboy'/ 'Cause silicone parts are made for toys.  In last August's "Anaconda," brassy female rapper Nicki Minaj borrows several lines from Mix-a-Lot, with a sample of his voice enthusing:  Little in the middle but she got much back/ Little in the middle but she got much back/ Little in the middle but she got much back."  With this chorus he cemented the appeal of "an itty bitty waist" to offset one's ample posterior, as also heard in the oft-repeated first line from his rap:

Mix-a-Lot's standpoint was that women should be looking to imitate not Kate Moss but Dolly Parton or Marilyn Monroe, whom he believed "exemplifies beauty."  At the time, design house Calvin Klein's influential "grunge-waif" look was preparing to crest, gaining force as the hallmark of Heroin-Chic.  In the '90s, print media was awash in its morose C.K. One/Obsession campaigns featuring androgynous models with aloof, distant eyes offset by dramatic cheekbones and lean builds:

A sampling of Calvin Klein print ads from the early-to-mid 1990s

Jodie Kidd, Chrystele Saint Louis Augustine, and Guinevere van Seenus for VOGUE Paris, September 1995

In Vulture's retrospective conversation from last December, the surprisingly thoughtful wordsmith explained that he was reacting against the prevalence in early-nineties advertising of the White Girl gamine, a pale waif "shaped like a stop sign, with big hair [and] and straight up-and-down bird legs."  He did not agree with promoting what his then-girlfiend referred to as "six-foot-tall girls who weighed 90 pounds."  (Recall that this is the decade when a primetime television star like Calista Flockhart, America's then-answer to "girl next door," possessed a BMI count of 15.6 when the average female came closer to satisfying 28.)  Before J. Lo, Christina Aguilera, and the Kardashian clan, voluptuous black or mixed-race females --- those with tawny complexions and "a little more broad at the beam" --- were under-represented minorities, especially where glamorous bombshells were in order.  These sex kittens were too often of fair skin, with Rita Hayworth or Susan Koehner subbing in for "ethnic" (as Latin and Negro, respectively).  This has been true for most of the last century, with the rare exceptions of Josephine Baker, Nina Simone, Lena Horne, Rita Moreno, Dorothy Dandridge, Eartha Kitt  Diana Ross, Pamela Grier, Beverly Johnson, Tyra Banks, Queen Latifah, Ru Paul (no joke), En Vogue, Mariah Carey, Halle Berry, Salma Hayek, Jessica Alba, Penelope Cruz, Beyonce Knowles, Sofia Vergara, Kerry Washington, and (on a lesser scale) cutesy TV fashion plate Mindy Kaling.  (After all, Whitney "I'm Every Woman" Houston, then topping the airwaves with "The Bodyguard" soundtrack, was lean in her heyday, skeletal in her decline.)

The source for this image, the American Music Awards website, dubbed Houston (shown here in the 1980s) a "bombshell" and "the perfect date."  She had appeared as a teenager on the cover of Seventeen and her whispy body type reflected a shift in ideals.

As Mix-a-Lot explained in the interview, "When I did casting calls for [the dancers in my] videos, curvy women wouldn't show up.  They thought they didn't have a chance."  (In fact, Beverly Johnson, a prominent face of the era, divulged to People in early 1993 --- the same year that saw the debut of Moss' Calvin Klein campaign --- that she would "always have an eating disorder" after adopting both bulimia and anorexia to stay employable.  "In our profession, clothes look better on a hanger, so you have to look like a hanger.  It will never change," she spoke bluntly in an interview with Kim Alexis and Carol Alt, all three having had adopted bizarre, stringent relationships with food to achieve runway-ready appearances.  "I personally took extreme methods to lose weight," she shared, adding:  "I looked like a Biafran.")  Mix-a-Lot's women were more Ten Pin than Candlepin, not exactly Supersized but also not off the Kid's Menu.  There would be no mistaking his models for teenage boys.

Kate Moss, Harper's Bazaar (July 1993)

Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back" was meant to relieve an imbalance, to shift attention to "women in the hood, women who had curves."  Says one authority on the subject, Dan Charmas, Vice-President of A&R, Def American/American Recordings (1991-1997); author, The Big Payback: The History of The Business of Hip-Hop, "his was the loudest voice for this cultural overthrow of the Euro-centric beauty aesthetic, in favor of something more akin to what America would look like twenty years hence..."

British GQ's "Woman of The Year" Kim Kardashian-West graced its pages and cover (with the same going for V Magazine) in 2014.  Despite a limited skill-set beyond serving as "professional socialite," her image and influence at present is astounding.  The Kardashian dynasty's umbrella currently extends over multiple reality shows, endorsement/modeling gigs, smart phone apps, high-profile marriages, "leaked" pornography . . . even diet pills.  The latter speaks to the difficulty of maintaining a taut belly offset by a full derriere --- her signature feature.

Despite its undignified facade, "Baby Got Back" was not intended to degrade female audiences (most especially those of African or Latino heritage), but instead to boost a community's confidence while having some fun with an established male fantasy --and somewhat less openly-acknowledged fetish.  Affirms Charnas, the song was fueled by "an earnest resolve to change body image" as marketed in the developed world.  I'm tired of magazines/ sayin' flat butts are the thing/ Take the average black man and ask him that/ She gotta pack much back, the lyrics exuberantly made clear.   

Drumming-up Controversy:  A playful Minaj toys with a woman's backside (and in widescreen, appropriately)

In the intervening years, Kim Kardashian-West and Nicki Minaj (above) have certainly not been the only artists to appropriate the Mix-a-Lot creed.  At the time, scores of rappers took-up his message, establishing it firmly within hip-hop culture.  It was almost immediately lampooned by Jaimie Fox on In Living Color, ridiculously exaggerated to comical effect.  (In "Baby Got Snacks,"  the ribald, straight-faced MC, himself displaying a gut, is a fan of fleshy ladies with large appetites.  Dubbed Sir Trail Mix-a-Lot, he enthuses:  You wanna put a big girl in a real good mood?/ She gotta have some food!)

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"Baby Got Back" has been lampooned on popular primetime sitcoms...

Phil Hartman in NewsRadio (Season 3, Episode 12:  "Rap" - January 8, 1997)

David Schwimmer in Friends (Season 9, Episode 7:  "The One with Ross' Inappropriate Song" - November 14, 2002)

...And by straight-faced spoof "anchormen"

Above:  Stephen Colbert interviews Congressman Jim McDermott for his 47th installment of "Better Know A District" (The Colbert Report, September 12, 2013)

With its reputation well-cemented, the indelible track has echoed within the zeitgeist in innumerable ways.  A successful, "folksy" version was arranged and released by Jonathan Coulton, which was then covered by the television musical Glee as recently as late-January 2013, and, in response, once again reworked by Coulton.  Its playful approach to "jiving 'bout junk" has become an easy, non-intimidating way to encourage a discussion about fuller figures.  Female entertainers have increasingly taken up the mantel of loving --and flaunting-- their "lady parts."  Two years after "Back" landed on the airwaves, saucy sitcom Living Single, known for its wry observations on African American culture, showed its female leads singing "Brick House" as a way of revving themselves up for a night on the town (Season 1, Episode 6:  "Great Expectations" - September 26, 1993).  In 1995, "Seinfeld"'s 107th installment, "The Fusilli Jerry," paid homage to the closeted assman when Kramer proudly displayed the term on his license plate, leading to the usual puzzle-piece dilemmas and contrivances:

And although she had made her red carpet debut years earlier, Jennifer Lopez's name did not draw considerable press until she went nearly full-frontall in a plunging green Versace gown at the 42nd Grammy Awards (February 23, 2000).  Although it featured a provocatively low v-neck, that dress was designed to hug and accentuate the music diva's notorious backside.  This past week, it was revealed to gossip site TMZ that "Baby Got Back" was in fact inspired by the onetime backup dancer, or "Fly Girl" (seen then and now):

Fifteen months following J. Lo's Grammy drama, Destiny's Child warned listeners:  I don't think you ready for this jelly/ I don't think you ready for this jelly/ I don't think you ready for this/ 'Cause my body too bootylicious for ya babe.  As declared in the megahit "Bootylicious," they implied that their endowments could strike shock, fear, awe:  I shake my jelly at every chance/ When I whip with my hips you slip into a trance.  What they had, the three proposed, was something disruptive and inflammatory:  Read my lips carefully if you like what you see/ Move, groove, prove you can hang with me/ By the looks I got you shook up and scared of me/Hook up your seatbelt, it's time for take off.  Their appearance on a dance floor, they assured us, would stop bystanders short, leaving men and women alike to "measure up" against their inimitable bodaciousness:  Barely move, we've arrived/ Lookin' sexy, looking' fly/ Baddest chic, chic inside.  As in "The Silencers" and "Brick House," they were championing the "Mighty might" derived from a woman's healthy proportions. 

On its own, "Bootylicious" can be praised as a theme of empowerment --- even if that strength comes sourced from ones thighs, breasts, and buttocks, to be leveraged over "a tender thang" looking to partner-up.  However, once you see the girls performing or posing in official appearances from the period, their bodies are svelte and muscular, a long way off from "jiggly."

Their mannequin-perfect physiques brought to light a troubling dilemma:  when Bronx-born Lopez or other movie/music/television stars are used as bellwethers of body acceptance, these superstars rarely take the form of an average fan, even if they insist on being tagged as "from the block."  Instead of being subversive and challenging of the then-norm for pop stars, the Destiny's Child brand was typical of an ideal for physical fitness in the age of kickboxing, Spin classes, juice cleanses, carb-nixing.  Michelle, Beyonce and Kelly were vixens, yes, but of a precisely-packaged, universal appeal.  Though not of the Hustler-level "silicone parts" that Sir Mix-a-Lot bemoaned, their appearance was certainly processed and carefully honed --- even, as a matter of fact, "made for toys":

Once you've sold your likenesses through licensing agreements, can you really be considered "Independent Women" or have you buckled to the pressure of "Bills, Bils, Bills"?

Bey-ond Reproach:  A Side Note On The Beyonce Machine
"Beyonce's hubris makes the world a better, more Beyonce-like place." - Rob Sheffield, Rolling Stone

It wouldn't be a complete discussion of changing ideals of beauty without a tangent on Beyonce Knowles-Carter, "music's glossiest mega-star," according to music industry Bible Rolling Stone.  For today's black female role models, with prominence comes the obligation to remain "fierce" in the eyes of a multi-race, demographically-diverse public.  Prime examples:  fitness ambassador First Lady Michelle Obama, tennis champions Serena and Venus Williams, notoriously muscular Jada Pinkett Smith and Angela Bassett (both enjoying career resurgences).  Since taking-on a solo path, Beyonce Knowles-Carter has made ground in distancing herself from the restrictive uniformity of her previous ensemble, and her body --- and body of work --- seem to have matured in tandem.  Launched from the Destiny's Child platform, her emergence to the forefront of the international stage was plotted over a series of calculated, hard-earned career milestones.  From early on it was obvious she was making efforts to pull from the pack:  its 2006 breakup and her inevitable rise was foreshadowed by the title of the group's second album, The Writing's on the Wall.  In short order she has embraced the role of A-List headliner with a cool, perfectly-tousled head.  Now a humanitarian and mother, her robust, muscular features bely the confidence that comes with selling-out stadiums, performing for a presidential inauguration and Super Bowl, even dropping a bestselling album without the need for advanced word.  She is so universally acknowledged as an exemplar of the female rear that an Australian horse fly with "a golden-haired bum" was named for her in 2012.

As for her physical prowess, any observable growth to her loins is of a minor scale --- barely even a pant size at most --- with any increase merely reflective of her efforts to come into her own.  As an ingenue, her handlers likely kept their investment on a short leash, with little wiggle room for stepping outside the cookie-cutter sample-size standard.  (What's worse, they once made it publicly known that she was in ownership of a nineteen-inch waist, establishing a dangerous precedent for possible emulators.)  Below, in a 2009 shoot for Tony Duran, a newly-solo Knowles is shown liberally greased, suggesting the artificial composition of a plastic plaything.  Her resemblance to Mattel's officially-sanctioned Beyonce doll of 2005 is indeed remarkable:

 

In a welcome departure, as we move closer to the decade's mid-point the superstar has taken pains to promote herself as equal parts goddess and real woman.  Nourishing her body --- and flaunting it --- is, quite simply, another way in which Knowles remains in the vanguard in a world where most royal figures (be they of official decree or mere token regard) come in the form of perilously slender, pale-skinned fashionistas such as Kate Middleton, Cate Blanchett, Angelina Jolie-Pitt, Keira Knightly, Victoria Beckham, Rachel Zoe, the Olsons, and on.  

Stepping up onstage at Revel Beach Ovation Hall in Atlantic City, May 2012 --- five months after the birth of daughter Blue Ivy

According to her Wikipedia page, Beyonce --- or Queen Bey, to cite a popular sobriquet that speaks of her aristocratic mien --- identifies as a proponent of feminist theory, and therefore resolves to keep body acceptance a priority ...when not musically reworking speeches from the likes of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

Upon the release of her fifth and latest album, resident writer and contributing Rolling Stone editor Rob Sheffield wrote:  "The whole project is a celebration of the Beyonce Philosophy, which basically boils down to the fact that Beyonce can do anything the hell she wants to."  Even with carte blanche artistic license giving her the option to "go dark," new recordings remain "[positive] pageant-ready ballads about believing in your dreams and reaching your goals."  

Beyonce and company performing at the Pepsi Halftime Show in 2013.  Rutgers University is confident she captures the zeitgeist of the 2010's, offering a course exploring her impact on "American race, gender and sexual politics."

Clearly keeping the best interest of her followers in mind (and the integrity of Parkwood Entertainment), Beyonce positions herself as a paradigm for the ambitious modern career-gal --- the tenacious businesswoman in gladiator sandals.  On female music ambassadors directing their careers, she told British life-and-style magazine The Gentlewoman early last year:  "I'm controlling my content, controlling my brand and archiving it for my daughter and making sure she has it and respects it but there's not enough of us that become moguls."  After all, her global imprint, like Houston's at its summit, depends on knowing --- and testing --- one's own strength.  Yet, unlike Whitney's career-defining character in "The Bodyguard, "Mrs. Jay-Z doesn't require a man's arms for protection or rescue.  (For evidence, consider that she dismissed her father as acting manager in 2011.)  True, she is half of one of the word's most high-profile unions, but Queen Bey has achieved parity with her hip-hop legend husband and artistic/domestic counterpart.  "I don't like to gamble," Knowles once declared, "but if there's one thing I'm willing to bet on, it's myself."

Beyonce and Jay-Z face the press at the 2014 Met Ball last May

Where's The Bey-f?

"Y'all have no idea how hard I worked.  They had me on that treadmill.  I ate lettuce!" - Beyonce

Beyonce modeling composure --- and couture --- as intimately photographed by Alasdair McLellan for The Gentlewoman Spring/Summer 2013

As much as Beyonce may be changing the ways in which a powerful icon controls her representation, the multi-hyphenate superstar is not really making waves for any sort of envelope-pushing reinvention of the feminine form.  (Instead, she's making weaves:  just see the amount of money and attention put into her hair alone.)  She may be carrying ever-slightly more meat than in her early years tethered to the Destiny's Child machine, but she also isn't challenging the reigning paradigm for the "perfect" size, now falling into the standard requirements for an extra-small by universal measure.  In fact, costume sketches leaked by her stylist confirm that the Grammy looks she flaunted in January were envisioned for a sinewy, arachnid model --one hardly larger than what is seen in the fashion trade, or at least not well beyond what makes for a designer muse.  (See Roberto Cavalli's distorted, idealized interpretation of her figure below.  To the credit of Beyonce and her vocal fan base, much outcry resulted from the the dramatic manipulation of her proportions.) 

Cavalli's camp claimed the digital sketch at left was "only meant to be a stylized and artistic vision" --- that "more than anyone else [he] has always exalted and highlighted the female shape, building his signature style on the glorification of sensuality and femininity."  To clarify his position, the Cavalli brand official Twitter feed posted an photo of the singer in the actualized dress.

In a YouTube mini-documentary entitled "Liberation," Beyonce explained the efforts taken to reshape her body between her daughter's birth and the release of last year's self-titled visual album:  

"I worked crazily to get my body back.  I wanted to show my body.  . . .  You can have your child and you can still have fun and still be sexy and still have dreams and still live for yourself.  I don't have any shame about being sexual.  I'm not embarrassed about it, and I don't feel like I have to protect that side of me because I do believe that sexuality is a power we all have."

Booty and the Beyst:  Knowles wears a swimsuit by The Laundry Room that reads, in reference to her husband's music, "99 Problems But My Ass Ain't One" (posted to her website November 9th)

Unfortunately, there are corners of the internet devoted exclusively to fueling near-lunatic levels of hysteria and analysis in regards to Knowles' body and lifestyle.  Therefore, when she revealed a marked transformation with the turn of 2014, reports passionately detailed her "reinvention" and the measures taken to achieve it.  "Beyonce is said to have lost an incredible 70 lbs over the past six months after embarking on a vegetarian diet," enthused The Daily Mail in January.  "[She and Jay Z] have a plant-based breakfast and a smoothie made of vegetables for lunch, with snacks on offer including cucumber and edamame beans.  Beyonce combined the diet with a rigorous exercise regime, which saw her and [trainer Marco Borges] increase the amount of dancing and running sessions she did in a week, as well as up her visits to the gym."

Rehearing for the Superbowl in New Orleans earlier this year (image credit:  Beyonce Tumblr)

As a bold-faced media starlet, such dedication reflects a strategic game plan not at all unexpected or unusual for those under contract to myriad entertainment outlets, beauty campaigns, clothing lines, personal constitutions.  Even so, it was a different contract that garnered the attention of her most vocal devotees:  the unspoken obligation that she would act as ambassador for females of naturally larger frame (or in the words of author Alexander McCall Smith, an African woman's "traditional build").  Many who were dismayed by her size reduction cited an assumed bond or sisterhood, one that she upended when stepping into her noticeably petite 2014 Grammy gown.  

UK tabloid The Mirror published an impassioned missive under the elaborate title "Beyonce is bootylicious no more and has betrayed us all by surrendering to body shape fascism":

"She was the anti-thigh gap poster girl.  She was healthy, strong, fierce and definitely not a size six.  Her old body reminded women there was more than one option.  Her new one conforms to the very pressures she used to empower us against.  Beyonce has abandoned us and gone over to the dark side.  There were only about three positive female role models in the world as it was and now we've lost the best one.  It feels like there's no point fighting any more, like we might as well all embark on our eating disorders immediately and be done with it."

Surely, such reliance on a public figure --- a literal stranger, mind you --- for one's cues in life demonstrates bizarre levels of attachment and a warped, vulnerable, decidedly uncertain identity.  I am going to assume that the author, being of tabloid employment, was purposefully stoking fires, seizing on hyperbolic language for dramatic effect.  However, while there were more than a mere "three" respectable and curvy females trafficking red carpets when she was writing last January, there has been a sense, especially in the black community, that most attention is paid to the sort of wan and vacuous "caucasian socialites" parodied by the Wayon Bros. back in 2004.  A few years ago such hangers-on might have been able to rely on Jennifer Hudson to offer relief as a shapely counterbalance, but just like fellow "American Idol" veteran and "Smash" co-star Katherine McPhee, the more she's distanced herself from supporting roles (a backup to Beyonce in "Dreamgirls") and on towards higher-profile opportunities (a rumored Aretha Franklin biopic), the more Hudson has hyped her emergence as an ugly-duckling-turned-swan --- a transformation made possible through an endorsement deal with Weight Watchers, naturally.

With the promise of landing above-the-title film roles, Jennifer Hudson went from size sixteen to six

Junk In The Trunk

"Daaaaamn.  I think we're gonna see some werewolves tonight, 'cause that's a full moon." - Bill Hader reacting to Nicki Minaj's rear end on "Saturday Night Live"

Born Onika Tanya Maraj, this outspoken MC has called herself not only the "Queen of New York" --- but also its king.  Here she appears in a publicity still for a hosting gig with MTV.

Since Beyonce's (debatable) abdication as the go-to black celebrity of substance, rapper Nicki Minaj has intervened, volunteering herself for the role.  She asserts in the chart topping "Anaconda" that her man (the one with the presumed "snake") don't like them boney, he want something he can grab.  Yet even still, her own silhouette --- seen in the video screenshot below --- is deeply cinched, her proportions almost absurdly drawn.  (It's as if such "choice" anatomy was conceived as a man's blow-up doll vision of the ideal sexual partner, as conveyed in this 2011 SNL "Bride of Frankenstein" parody.)  

"Her artistic persona is driven by a hyper-sexuality," The Huffington Press has said.  Like Lady Gaga, her marketability depends on remaining a debate-fueling "spectacle" --- a bold and brassy modern creation capable of turning heads and inciting discussion.  Like Kim Kardashian, she has kept herself at the top of "trending" headlines this autumn by increasingly playing into her jaw-dropping measurements.

Begs the internet:  Who's bottom is on top?  Image credits:  Mario Testino (V Magazine)/Jean-Paul Goude (Paper Magazine)

Rear View Mirror:  This pose from Sports Illustrated's Golden Anniversary Issue (originally in color) is suspiciously similar to Minaj's "Anaconda" stance.  Of course, Nicki herself went to Instagram to rate this squat and others, deeming it an "acceptable" display of beach bum.

With Minaj and Kardashian, we've seen Sir Mix-a-lot's vision of "a black man's ideal" fully absorbed into the mainstream, sparking new interest in body modification, with techniques ranging from muscle-building exercises to surgery, and padded underwear selling like, well, hotcakes.

Yes, there is no denying that women of all color are now being shown from behind in order to best emphasize a "saucy round rear," as described in the above panel by cartoonist and diet-and-body-standards authority Cathy Guisewite. Even still, our most hotly-burning icons --- while often demonstrating more ambiguous racial profiles --- continue to offer a limited range for the measurements of their flesh, despite access to the most inventive and dexterous custom outfitters.  It's as if the world's elite, instead of ordering designer gowns to fit their bodies, design their bodies to fit the gowns.  As Karl Lagerfield once said, "I lost two hundred pounds to wear suits by Hedi Slimane."

More or Less:  When 'Plus' Equals 'Minus'

"In Hollywood I'm obese.  I'm considered a fat actress.  I'm Val Kimer in that one picture on the beach." - Jennifer Lawrence

The sanded-down, mannequin-level sameness within the Hollywood glitterati has provided fuel for discussion in several respected publications, not just by supermarket aisle scandal rags.  This was evidenced by reader response to September's Vanity Fair, in which columnist James Wolcott expressed Award Show Fatigue.  One letter in the current issue describes suffering through last September's disappointing, depressing Emmy coverage, in which NBC's cameras (rather unsurprisingly) remained steadily trained on the most commercial and eye-pleasing nominees.  This filtered view of a work community that encompasses many people of many callings --- and figures --- is the equivalent to "an inside club where you must be pretty to be displayed," observed Ellen Wacher of Florida.  Seconded another disenchanted star-gazer, London's Lisa Westcott Wilkins:

"Awards season used to be my favorite holiday --- all the pretty dresses!  But of late, I too have been left feeling empty by the parade of desiccated fembots wheeled out in aspirational haute couture.  . . .  Imagine the feeding frenzy at the Oscars if someone dared to throw a steak down in front of those women.  Jennifer Lawrence would be the only one not in the scrum to savage it, because she'd already have had a cheeseburger in the limo.  You'll be able to tell because there's ketchup on her Dior."

Now to be certain, Lawrence (photographed here for a high-profile print campaign by Willy Vanderperre) is not exactly straining the seams of her Hunger Games unitard or second-skin Mystique bodysuit.  Rather, she has simply achieved notoriety in the press for voicing a brazen predilection for junk food, an  unrestrained appetite that seems perfectly in concert with the uncensored, unapologetic attitude she maintains.  Featured as the cover subject for the same Vanity Fair referenced above, the 24-year-old is described as the quintessential "anti-vegan, anti-gluten-free consumer, having just eaten a breakfast of spaghetti and meatballs."  In January it was revealed that she compromised the condition of her "American Hustle" wardrobe by shedding Doritos dust on a key gown; two years earlier she spoke of downing a Philly cheesesteak before the Academy Awards.  

As explained at the time to Entertainment Tonight's fawning reporters, "I think that people are built the way that they're built.  And you just, I mean, there's that quote, that Kate Moss quote that's like, 'Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,' and I'm like [scoffs] 'I can name name A LOT of things that taste better than skinny feels:  bread, potatoes.  . . .  I just think, 'I exercise, I'll be fine."  Of course, interviewer Nancy O'Dell had only just complemented her on being "gorgeous" and with "an incredible body", immediately sending a mixed-message with:  "And you said that you love your curves... And by the way, you look very fit, and skinny yourself."  (In the context of their encounter, which included raw and loose "girl talk" regarding one's need for slenderizing hosiery, it could be thought that this was a two-faced approach to conversation.  However, given the nature of O'Dell's career-defining glad-handing and sycophancy, I highly doubt it was intended as such.)

Jennifer Lawrence poses a question of vital concern (with E! anchor Ryan Seacrest at the 85th Academy Awards, February 24, 2013)

Of course, like Minaj, Lawrence is being credited far too ardently, adoringly and as a stand-in for "real" (i.e. larger) figures.  The Huffington Post's Jenny Trout calls out the preposterousness of writing-in Lawrence as a "'Spirit Animal' to fat girls everywhere," pointing-out, "one thing that may have escaped your notice ...is that Jennifer Lawrence is a fit, attractive 20-something woman."  Later, she opines:  "I'm not going to cover the fact that it's messed up that a girl like Jennifer Lawrence has to justify her perfectly gorgeous body to every single media consumer in the world.  [...But] to appease our own self-doubt about our weight, we, the Internet, have decided to ignore how body-shaming [our adoration of her perceived curviness and clumsiness, her love for Doritos] really is."

In celebrating the outspokenness of "J. Law" and her insistence that she will resist pressures to lose weight, we lionize her bravery despite the undeniable fact that her measurements represent an (almost) universal ideal.  Evidence of this is on display in the conception and fulfillment of Michael Wilkinson's design for her character, a de facto trophy wife and scheming sex kitten, in 2013's "American Hustle."  

(Sure, there will always be the captious nitpickers pushing weightism, but to suggest that she is not hotly sought-after by fashion firms to flaunt their designs at premieres, or being cast as an alluring vixen in films, is to inflate her struggle, handing her a specious appearance of homeliness.)  After all, in assigning her to its "X-Men" franchise as a character frequently seen in the (albeit body painted, scale-covered) nude, the blazing juggernaut that is Marvel Studios has endorsed her "Mystique physique" as something global audiences want to see.  It would be as if Helen of Troy demurred to the ladies in attendance at her Laconia palace that she was merely "plain" by Spartan standards.  So instead of proclaiming pride in how "big" she is, perhaps it would be better if she deferred that positioning to more typical victims of body shaming.  Writes Trout:

"Imagine if Melissa McCarthy had made so many public comments about food and McDonalds.  It wouldn't be cute or funny, it would be schtick.  Look at the fat woman, being human and hungry for something bad for her!  How grotesquely humorous it is when fat people eat!  When Jennifer Lawrence makes these comments, it's acceptable because her body is still pleasing to our cultural expectation of voluptuous, slim-waisted, long-necked beauty.  [...]  The reason Jennifer Lawrence is allowed to be a body-positive role model to young girls and 'chubby' women is because she is representative of conventional beauty.  Jennifer Lawrence's public image has been built on a foundation of fat girl drag."

. . .

Much like Marilyn Monroe --- who was especially slender in her final days --- 
Jennifer Lawrence is cited (rather perplexingly) for being a woman of "substance."  
While an accurate assessment of both women's minds, their bodies speak differently:

Both icons have been deemed fit enough to undergo reincarnation 

as Barbie fashion dolls --- the ultimate bellwether of America's physical ideal:

*And, yes, J. Lo has also been "i-doll-ized" in two Barbie variants 

(yet another indicator of our collective views on glamour, celebrity, and the covetable body)

Nonplussed
"In America, we no longer fear God, or the communists, but we fear fat." - David Kritchevsky, health and nutrition advocate

"One of these things is not like the other," once sang Birg Bird. Around this time last year, Melissa McCarthy appeared on one of five covers used for Elle's November issue -- yet only hers featured baggy attire. Was the (somewhat) ropy-poly Mindy Kaling cropped by the magazine for similar reasons this February? And what about the omission of Gabourey Sidibe's body (and lightening of her skin tone) in October 2010? Might the choice to use only Penelope Cruz's face (above right) related to hiding pregnancy pounds?

Clearly, there is a ceiling to how far our public figures can expand before deliberate strategies are summoned to mask their size.  Calvin Klein, no stranger to controversy, has rekindled discussion about what makes for a plus-sized model after hiring Myla Dalbesio --- a size 10.  Her seemingly fit form points again to the sober truth that our celebrity menagerie boasts few genuinely rotund members.  Aside from ample Adele or the unapologetically pear-shaped-and-loving-it Lena Dunham, outliers rarely break ground into major mainstream awareness.  This of course goes double for the fairer sex, an unbalanced rule that has permitted men of larger stature to succeed in positions of high visibility that would never welcome the same from competent and capable female candidates.  On this front, commendation must be paid to Los Angeles newsman Sam Rubin, who on October 27 published his personal take on "the most delicate self-examination of all" --- that which "the mirror reveals":

"In 2014, Morning News TV personalities are expected to be upbeat, even jolly.  The same expectations are there for the on-air woman as well; with one major exception.  The world won't end if I am jolly and maybe a touch jiggly, but heaven help us, if one of my female colleagues is truly heavy.  There are women on air who, like me, could stand to lose a few pounds, but that is a very rare circumstance; and in the entire 20-plus years I have worked on the air, none of my bosses have ever said anything to me about my weight.  I know that  virtually every woman I have ever worked with has not been able to avoid those same conversations."

Offers Rubin:  "the F word is particularly loaded, because our definition of fat has changed over the years; mostly as many of us have gotten fatter."  Indeed, with obesity now recognized as a spreading epidemic, a great deal of energy goes to worshipping our "Biggest Loser" heroes, with exacting details made available on how they continue to manage and reduce, especially in the face of temptations shared by the Average Jane or Joe. 

Responding to a piece in The New Yorker's September 22nd edition detailing the history of plus-size clothing, Eva Jeffers of Boston noted that there is a chasm between what we are and what we yearn to be, that "more people continue to struggle to become 'normal-sized'" --- with the numbers on our labels demonstrating that inflation.  In February, The Huffington Post cited a comprehensive visual essay by Rehabs.com detailing the widening of women --- and the widening disconnect between ourselves and the Hollywood ideal:  "[In a joint study with digital marketing agency Fractl, the addiction and eating disorder recovery site] found that the difference between models' weights and the weight of the average woman has grown from 8 percent in 1975 to over 23 percent today."  Maintains Ms. Jeffers, "...I am beginning to wonder if this isn't creating a sharper dichotomy in the fashion world.  In American culture, at the peak of fat phobia, it seems only natural that legions of wornen would channel their disconnect into the body-positive movement, creating such events as Full Fashion Week."

The Winter of Our Discontent

"It did what all ads are supposed to do:  create an anxiety relievable by purchase." - David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

Fear And Loathing:  Be wary, housewives, of commercial copy that instills paranoia and uncertainty 

"I think, therefore I scan"

...But accepting our present condition does not feed into sales as effectively as anxiety and restless ennui, and consumerism --- the very platform of the modern world --- is dependent on offering-up solutions to these unquenchable desires.

French theorist Andre Malraux once observed:  "the attempt to force human beings to despise themselves is what I call Hell."

Discontentment is a part of the human condition; but so are the often contradictory traits of self-awareness and ivory-tower ambition.  An industrious species, we apply our curiousness and abilities to scratching the undisciplined, traveling itch.  And in pursuing that common goal, we look in and around ourselves for solutions.  It is advertising's job to be the first thing that sticks.  And advertising today is delivered best by our abounding, robust multimedia cues.  

"We are buried beneath the weight of information, which is being confused with knowledge, " noted offbeat musician Tom Waits --- in a 2008 interview he held with himself

In this far-reaching landscape, who is best qualified to provide us our answers?  Surely, the people who prominently benefit from a purchase and its application.  Who can we trust to demonstrate the effectiveness of that commodity and its envious benefits?  The World's Most Beautiful, that's who.  Especially those who weren't always that way.  They better demonstrate what we might achieve.

Kim K.'s roller coaster weight saga lends sympathy to her narrative 

--- and authority to her voice as QuickTrim spokesperson

The Us Weekly smartphone app organizes its splashy, trashy tabloid concoctions under wildly superficial categories such as Entertainment, Style, Beauty, Moms, Body, etc.  A casual tour through the latter unearths these leads:

Kate Winslet Shows Trim Post-Baby Waist While Filming New Movie / Missy Elliott Has Seriously Slimmed Down -- See Her Weight Loss Here! / Kim Kardashian Complains About 'Sweet Tooth,' Says She Needs To Make Diet 'Changes' / Kelly Osbourne Shares Impressive, Full-Body Bikini Shot:  'I Look Good!'

The common denominator is that all four of these headline-generators gained initial stardom when still sporting "softer" contours reflective of young flesh, a.k.a. "baby fat."  Now, a respectable distance into their careers, they, too, have shed those "excessive" pounds, and in so doing have removed themselves from the ever-shrinking list of plus-size role models.  Kardashian, in a shameless bid for simulated kinship with insecure adherents, sells herself as "relatable" by focusing her hyperactive Twitter feed on weight-loss and exercise goals.  Reads one post from early August:  "Not gonna complain anymore.  Starting diet TODAY!  No carbs, crazy workouts.  Who's with me?"  Here is someone raised aloft, with roughly twenty-five million registered followers, and even she maintains "relevancy" in the pop culture firmament by broadcasting dissatisfaction with her goddess body.  

What sort of message does this leave for the impressionable audience basking in her spray-tan glow?  Where can we look for a break in the clouds --- or, rather, the velvet ropes --- that so strictly delineate lofty Mount Olympus and its A-List inhabitants from the rest of us here at sea level?

Three and a half years ago, Tina Fey --- herself no stranger to being judged on appearance --- took a moment to issue a staggeringly prescient aside on modern-day beauty standards and their near-impossible realization.  Nestled within Bossypants, her bestselling collection of dry and wry comedic essays and personal origin stories, the following sardonically-leveled censure has been receiving fresh attention, awarding her "the final word" on the subject --- all the more remarkable given that these observations date from 2011:

"But I think the first real change in women's body image came when J. Lo turned it butt-style.  That was the first time that having a large-scale situation in the back was part of mainstream American beauty.  Girls wanted butts now.  Men were free to admit that they always enjoyed them.  And then, what felt like moments later, boom --- Beyonce brought the leg meat.  A back porch and muscular legs were now widely admired.  And from that day forward, women embraced their diversity and realized that all shapes and sizes are beautiful.  Ah ha ha.  No.  I'm totally messing with you.  All Beyonce and J. Lo have done is add to the laundry list of attributes women must have to qualify as beautiful.  Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits.  The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes."

Behold!  Man's greatest artificial creation!  Clockwise from top left:  Kim Kardashian in W Magazine (November 2010), an advertisement for Svedka Vodka, animated frames from Fritz Lang's seminal silent motion picture Metropolis (1927)

"All" Aboard The Shame Train (In Which The Caboose Comes First)
"If you're gonna be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty." - Marilyn Monroe

This is where dark horse Billboard topper Meghan Trainor fits in.  At the start of her August smash single "All About That Bass," the singer-songwriter greets listeners with:  Yeah, it's pretty clear I ain't no size two.  It was Minaj, lifting from Sir Mix-a-Lot, who said, Don't want none unless you got buns, hun, and this notion of tangible heft is strongly echoed by Trainor.  

Roughly halfway into her frothy ear worm (neologism acknowledged) the knowing and, yes, roly-poly 20-year-old reassures insecure weight watchers:  Yeah, my mama she told me don't worry about your size/ She says, 'Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.'  Sunny, blonde, and cherubic, Trainor is somewhat less exclusionary and self-righteous than Minaj, a welcome approach made stronger in that she doesn't boast the advantage of an implausibly small center to offset her ample end.  With Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top, she, like Mix-a-Lot, promotes a woman's natural form, per the expression "as God gave you."

Nicki Minaj gives food a "thumbs up" (while dressed as a saucy French maid, natch) in an interstitial sequence from "Anaconda"

All three artists (Mix-a-Lot, Minaj, and Trainor) position themselves squarely against deprivation or denial, especially when it comes to "owning who you are."  Despite her eeny-beeny torso, Minaj includes a section of her video to rewarding oneself with food, post work-out, having said that her hubby can tell I ain't missing no meals.  Having energy, especially for dancing, is fervently encouraged in "Baby Got Back," which references being pumped like a turbo 'vette, and even eating regularly gets called-on:  Give me a sister, I can't resist her/Red beans and rice didn't miss her...

...Which might be just the right message if not for the derogatory lyrics intoned by each.  Instead of embracing all shapes, Trainor, like Minaj, leaves some body types out while glorifying her own.  In her video, the Nantucket native includes only one truly paunchy dancer in her company of friends, a rather giddy young man with powder pink hushpuppy slippers and a nuclear bunker's supply of attitude --- er, fattidude:

Indeed, the ladies she's selected for her backup troupe are all of the typical American cast (that is, plump, but in no way corpulent to a distracting or off-putting level).  She has all the right junk in all the right places, phrasing that unfortunately leads to the assumption that some ways of filling (or, rather NOT filling) our "places" can, alternatively, be wrong.  (The following GIF illustrates this, as we see this Large-And-In-Charge male responding to a quintessential "stick figure" waif with the hand gesture universally understood as "na-uh, girlfriend -- don't EVEN...!" or, more precisely, "Talk to the hand 'cause the face ain't listening!"  With this move, he clearly "rejects" anyone making the case for a defense of TEAM THIN --- a refusal that smacks of "skinny shaming" and uncooperative disunity, a rather discordant strain amidst Trainor's otherwise idyllic Sandra Dee-meets-"Valley of The Dolls" party setting.)

Trainor claims to have been courted by clothing labels as a brand ambassador, which is certainly plausible given her winsome exterior and easily accommodated medium build.    She claims that Beyonce is too "teeny" to have used her song, which was initially pitched to other artists before she received approval for herself in the lead.  And yet, much like the supposedly-groundbreaking Dove soap "real women" ads, her cupcake-colored video limits its representation of curvy to females well within the (shrinking) standards for plus-size models.  She may insist that she's "no size two," but this singer-songwriter seems solidly positioned in the Average-Girl-Next-Door range.  (We can all agree she's in no way landing in the double-X's at either end of the clothing spectrum.)  And in an age when the most commercial magazines resort to doll-faced celebrity portraits (versus full-length views of sharp and rawboned catwalk poses), she makes for an easily-styled and sellable subject.  The myriad, enviable outfits in within her chosen Candyland pageant realm serve only to underline this fact.

Bitter Pills
"To the beanpole dames in the magazines:  you ain't it, Miss Thing!" - Sir Mix-a-Lot

Superficially and in deeper context, using "All About That Bass" to remit and reroute ideas of resounding social significance is akin to administering a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down.  

Surmizes Flavorwire columnist Jillian Mapes on Trainor's "Diet Feminism approach to pop music":

"Admittedly, the premise of 'All About That Bass' would not make it through a Gender 101 course intact.  [...] Trainor sings while conventionally attractive female backup dancers in colorful, size-eight dresses shimmy innocently.  Elsewhere in the cutesy, GIF-ready clip, a man of color dressed in pastels plays the role of prop in two different ways:  the sassy gay best friend and the sole overweight person who doesn't give a fuck."

Dancer and Vine star Sione Maraschino "doesn't give a fuck," wrote Flavorwire.com

What's more, it mustn't be ignored that, as in "Anaconda," the first-person vocalist is using approval of the opposite sex to reaffirm a woman's value, and happily.  This has led to mild and even fervid outrage from feminist circles, who use the cogent argument that if a "so-called empowering song" uses "the opinions of men and the tearing down of other women, we dig ourselves a deeper hole."  'Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase, she croons with somewhat obnoxious braggadocio, and can shake it, shake it/lLike I'm supposed to do.  Notably, even in the widely-distributed cover image for her song Trainor is literally serving sweets to a rather comfortable, "casual cool" male guest:

The "All About That Bass" official release poster, as sanctioned by Epic Records 

Discouragingly, Trainor thus finds it necessary to isolate body forms "deserving" of disapproval.  Herself clocking-in above the sample sizes, Trainor quickly proceeds to take-down Barbie as a symbol of the sort of silicone, pink artificiality lampooned in her video's visuals, as well as voicing disdain for "stick figure" types.  And despite a separation of twenty-two years, her official video directly recycles a gimmick from Mix-a-Lot's.

In each, a tall, pale, small-breasted brunette (shown with Mix-a-Lot above) is positioned as a stand-in for what is to be assumed as fake, unrealistic, and lacking, both emotionally and physically.  In Trainor's version, said "model-type" is left to pose, peerless, while the fuller-figured girls jive and jump almost tauntingly, often shoulder-to-shoulder as if in a human chain or phalanx.  This "fashion victim" has a posture and expression conveying awkwardness and dissatisfaction; her unforgiving, mercilessly revealing outfit is purposefully ridiculous, artificial, hobbling:  a see-through vinyl peplum dress with saran-wrap corset/Spanks.

Barbie 2013 "Raquelle" Fashionistas doll

Just as her predecessor called-out the trashy fashion rag Cosmopolitan (reimagined as "Cosmopygian" by the Mix-a-Lot team), Trainor references the magazine industry's custom of "working that Photoshop" in order to whittle a model's already lean thighs, arms, and waistline.  We know that shit ain't real, she states.  C'mon now, make it stop.  Whether she is encouraging her audience to help with ending the practice or speaking directly to those responsible is left for interpretation.

Perhaps sensing resentment, Cosmo posted a weak missive to its website this July explaining Photoshop's enduring relevance, inevitable flubs

But one thing is clear:  this self-professed exemplar of body pride doesn't want her impressionable audience --- especially those still growing, with "beauty building" -- to fixate on or become the quintessential ballerina nymph/Cosmo Girl.  As her video conveys, a "foreign" substance such as ass fat is perplexing and, at least initially, revolting for such breeds of Barbie stand-ins:

Trainor's message would be understandable, and worth trumpeting, if not for her next , more blatant infraction against the thin.  In what has become a topic of endless debate for online pontificators and minor journalists, the singer announces:  I'm bring booty back/ Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches that.  I find it worth observing that Ms. Trainor puts this command in a grammatical form suggesting she is not socially intimate with said kind; the listener, not she, will be the one to announce that, for the ass-less chick, her time is through.  This implies separation and rivalry, pitching well-distanced disgruntlement towards some who might not be deserving of such carefully lobbed spite.  A direct dialogue is only paid when she offers this (somewhat limp) olive branch after slinging the "skinny bitch" epithet:  No, I'm just playing/ I know you think you're fat/ But I'm here to tell ya/ Every inch of you is perfect from the bottom to the top.  In a rather laughable coincidence, Trainor went to Cosmopolitan, the very same magazine spoofed by Sir Mix-a-Lot in his video, to tackle backlash kindled by the out-of-place profanity.  In her defense, interviews suggest she is more naive than vindictive, emoting a "bemused noise" when asked difficult questions, having "not thought [very] far ahead" because she "didn't realize the WORLD would be calling" with such immediacy (and, in some cases, justified vitriol).  As told to Peter Robinson of Britain's Pop Justice in mid-August:

"Oh God man, I don't criticize skinny people!  I would never shame a skinny person!  I don't know who would want to.  I guess they stop listening immediately after I say 'skinny bitches' and just turn it off.  But I say '...just kidding, I know even you think you are fat.'  For instance, I have skinny friends and some of them will stand in front of the mirror and go, 'eugh, I'm just like so big.  And I'm standing there going, 'JESUS!  If you're big then what am I?'  That's not right.  So I was just saying that.  There was a huge Twitter account that made a blog about 'this is a body-shaming song.'  I was like, 'oh my goodness, okaaay...'  I don't get it.  No, I would never shame a skinny person, it makes no sense."

In a brief Q&A, Trainor repeats the same reasoning for any misunderstandings (TIME Magazine volume 184, no. 14 - October 13, 2014, as framed by Barbie's signature gams)

So perhaps Trainor is merely tone-deaf to the resounding reverberations of her own voice, of the repercussions of and danger in offering fumbled, less than air-tight statements on a sensitive subject, especially in an age of intensely critical, unmoderated 24/7 hashtagged commentary.  To be fair, it's difficult to satisfy universal expectation, especially when young and/or new to the Fame Game, and she's been navigating the storm with relative aplomb.  It is surely challenging to express yourself as an internationally-recognized artist when operating under the spotlight's withering heat; walking in her shoes would mean avoiding numerous and unexpected land mines.  Merely sixteen at the time, actress Dakota Fanning spoke of the responsibility she inherited as a Hollywood starlet when interviewed for the 2010 edition of V Magazine's THE SIZE ISSUE:  "I think that when you're in the public eye you automatically become a role model," she reflected.  "But, you know, no one's perfect, everyone makes mistakes.  I have made mistakes and continue to make mistakes.  I'm only human."

Seconds Trainor, when asked about her stance on feminism by UK's The Guardian:  "I'm a 20-year-old girl, and I don't know a lot about all that stuff and don't want to be labelled as anything at such a young age."  Just as she tries to distance herself from any sort of political agenda, the singer also deflects her interviewer's suggestion that she isn't able to handle the responsibility that comes with stirring up attention, having provided the world with an "emblem of self-acceptance":

"It's helped me on my path, knowing all these girls look up to me, and it helps me learn to love myself.  Their support, reading their messages, makes it that much easier.  It's not a lot of pressure, it's just amazing that one song can change all these lives."

Reaction From the Online Jungle
"Faults are thick where love is thin." - English proverb

Animal savagery (courtesy of Marvel Comics, June 1973)

Surely, Trainor is shielding her eyes from the entire messy gamut of opinions being shared about her and her work.  As with almost anyone in the modern world who dares take on a position leaving them vulnerable to scrutiny, Trainor's every move is being shadowed and sounded upon in message boards --- and not just by her fans (coined the "Megatrons").  Rather, a mob of critics has rallied to shine heat on the contradictions in her lyrics.  In the same early October phone call cited above, The Guardian's Caroline Sullivan suggests avoiding comment threads, telling her "Don't read the bottom half of the internet."  It echoes what British journalist and New Yorker contributor John Lanchester describes as today's "online ferment."  Although he reflects upon food culture in the November 3rd issue, the novelist and amateur gastronomic historian points to a virtual boxing ring that exists as part of our entertainment arena, saying:  "There's just too much of everything.  Too much hype, too much page space, too many programming hours, too many features . . . and reviews and profiles and polemics, far, far, far too much online commentary and judgement and chatter."  From what he sees, "Chefs live on the receiving end of a constant fire hose of commentary and criticism . . . from people who know far less about their craft than they do."  Simply put, "Everyone's a critic," he laments.

It brings to mind Bob Dylan's words from "Talkin' New York" (1962):  "A lot of people don't have much food on their table/ But they got a lot of forks and knives/ And they gotta cut something."

Rich And Stabulous:  Dolce & Gabbana, Winter 2006

Of course, art is meant to be shared and consumed, establishing itself in the eyes, ears, and (as in Lanchester's musings) guts of those on its receiving end.  Feedback, often passionate, is merely a natural inevitability.  Add the freedom of anonymity and any graciousness and restraint afforded by the super-ego gets too often overpowered by the id, unleashed.

Whether or not the pitchforks and torches are necessary in Trainor's case I'll leave up for debate, as there certainly is much of it to be found.  On the very same page that published Sullivan's Q&A, The Guardian features links to three additional stories within its archives exploring feminist implications in "All About The Bass."  And that's to say nothing of the reader posts.

Many of those who are disgruntled with Trainor take on Nicki Minaj in tandem, killing two bards with one stone, so-to-speak.  "Anaconda" was released in the same season, and, like "Bass" includes derogatory, cutting remarks towards less-endowed females.  As much as Trainor insists that skinny-shaming was not part of her original design, Minaj's opinion reads less opaque:  Yeah!  This one is for my bitches with a fat ass in the fucking club/ I said, 'Where my fat ass big bitches in the club?'/ Fuck the skinny bitches/ Fuck the skinny bitches in the club/ I wanna see all the big fat ass bitches in the motherfucking club/ Fuck you if you skinny, bitches!  What?/Yeah!/Ha ha ha ha hahhhhh.  [Tongue trill.] Yeah!/ I GOT A BIG FAT ASS!!!/ Yeah!  Come on!  

This snake's got bite:  "Anaconda" depicts Nicki's venomous side

Much comment has been made regarding the inconsistency of these anthems, particularly because their authors have claimed again and again to stand against body disparagement and same-sex hostility.  Torn between praise and concern, Kadeen Griffiths of Bustle explains her hesitation to embrace these tunes unconditionally:

"I understand the allure of skinny-shaming when it comes to songs like this.  The word 'fat' is thrown around to insult women as often as the word 'ugly,' because women are still overwhelmingly judged by their looks regardless of what they are doing or saying to make someone else so angry to begin with.  I can understand why it might be nice to have to be able to throw an insult back in their faces, since our society places women of a certain body type on a pedestal above women with fuller figures.  I'm not dismissing that at all.

"However, Minaj, for one, has always made it a point to preach to her fans that women should be building each other up instead of tearing each other down so it was incredibly disappointing for her to sell a competitive mentality to her fans in 'Anaconda.'  In Trainor's defense, at least 'All About That Bass' went on to say No, I'm just playing although it sounded disingenuous in the song.  It would have been very simple for both 'Anaconda' and All About That Bass' to avoid skinny shaming in their songs, even without doing a complete rewrite of their lyrics."

Ass The World Turns:  A feature was carried by the Associated Press on November 16, 2014 titled "Quest for bigger butts boosts bottom lines."  Appearing in the Business section of The Maine Sunday Telegram, the piece, written by Joseph Pisani, details the current demand for foam panty inserts as well as implant surgery and "derierre enhancement" exercise tutors.

One Clutch writer echoed this sentiment, explaining that Minaj channels that "disgust" for full-figures so pervasive in early-nineties fashion/fitness culture, but in reverse, "to fit today's standards" wherein "black and white women alike are desperate for a big butt."  She then suggests:

"As today's premiere, most recognized MC, it would have been nice if Minaj had given a shout out to all women -- those with and without the bubble.  That would have been empowering and encouraging.  She could have chiseled away at men's obsession with a fat ass by redirecting their attention and realizing that it's not physically possible for every woman to have a large behind."

Warm shades make only one "end" of the cleavage rainbow

Indeed, these purportedly "updated" music hits have opted, rather unnecessarily, to issue hits --with, confusingly, equal parts goofy humor and serious enmity.  And that is what I find particularly disturbing --- that the artists choose to plant acid under folds of winking, frothy pop candy.  When hate and humor collide, they make for dangerous bedfellows, as each is capable of immediate, even subliminal, dissemination.  This is especially true in today's never-resting world of viral topics, snatched and repurposed by serious and casual writers alike.  Surely, both camps are hectored and manipulated enough without having to cast stones upon their sisters?

Portuguese underwear and swimsuit model Sara Sampaio posted a plea to online "body bullies" on November 12th, writing:  "The amount of hate I see thrown at me . . . is ridiculous."  She later pleaded, "Be happy with ur body and stop shaming others."  Within days she was back to Instagram, defending herself to Jezebel after the "women's interests" blog criticized her for being self-deprecating when speaking admiringly of fellow Victoria's Secret Angel Candice Swanepoel in a company-sanctioned video.  The ongoing back-and-forth has been picked-up by news services such as the UK's Daily Mail.

In recent days, mixed-race U.K. recording artist Natalia Kills went to Twitter to express her dismay at Minaj's bitter and aggressive closing lines.  "Horrified for being considered a bitch [based solely on my size]," she wrote in her @NataliaKills feed.  "Larger-framed women need to stop bullying/victimizing girls with small frames."  She continued:  "It's not a 'positive' message that if you have small breasts (like me) and 'don't got that jelly' men won't find you sexually appealing."

The authoress of blog I Guess I'm A Grownup (from which I'm sourcing a most-excellent .GIF, seen in my next section) identified the dilemma of this perpetually-renewing shame spiral with precise accuracy:

"I'm all for body positivity.  Like hello.  Duh.  But it is SO UNNECESSARY to insult one body type in order to elevate another.  Skinny girls are not better than fat girls and vice versa.  Fat girls don't like it when people make them feel bad about the way they look, right?  Well skinny girls don't like it either."  

What's more, if a person DOES have an eating disorder, chances are he or she is already violently self-defeating and inwardly critical, in no way deficient in or deserving of further reasons to feel shame.  The level of bitter, righteous rancor directed towards those who serve, often fatally, the torturous rigors of anorexia, bulimia, and other intake/outtake rituals is MADDENING.  It all ties back to the unhelpful playground animosity so emblematic of our gender.

Sweet 'N Sour
"There's been some girl-on-girl crime here..." - Mrs. Norbury (Tina Fey), "Mean Girls" 

Of the numerous accolades attributed to humorist and sketch show veteran Tina Fey --- recipient of a Spoken Word Grammy, multiple Emmys, and the prestigious Mark Twain Prize --- penning the farcical teen romp "Mean Girls" is unlikely to shoot to the top of the list.  But the film, based on Rosalind Wisewand's nonfiction study Queen Bees & Wannabees, is a spunky, well-intentioned, sadly accurate look at what Fey terms "'relational aggression' among girls."

Fashion Thrashin':  females brawl in Versace  (as captured by the inimitable Richard Avedon, spring 1995)

It intimately follows 16-year-old Cady (Lindsay Lohan) as she clumsily navigates the unspoken etiquette of young adult life in Anywhere U.S.A.  Having been raised in African bush country by zoologist parents, Cady's experiences are logged in her mind like entries to a scientific journal, lending her an outsider's perspective.  In the insular community, a clique of nubile beauties called The Plastics hold court, their name inspired by the "cold, hard, shiny" material associated with Barbie-esq silicone perfection.

They Hunt In Packs:  "Plastics" Gretchen (Lacey Chabert), Regina (Rachel McAdams), and Karen (Amanda Seyfried)

Recall that both Sir Mix-a-Lot and Trainor, in no small coincidence, also referenced the unrealistic ideals of fashion dolls, raising objection to their misleading proportions and enchanted fun-in-the-sun lifestyle. 

But as much as plastic can be seen as unnatural, perfect, and modern, there is nothing particularly new or clean about the manner in which these pageant-ready debutantes tear into one another.  The irony on display is that Cady may have been removed from the jungle, but she remains a firsthand witness to animal savagery.  The primary difference is that in the paved parking zones and linoleum corridors of North Shore High School, attacks are issued with a calculated cruelty meant to punish by means of psychological manipulation and internalized torment.  As much as she anticipates female peers directly stabbing or clawing into "frenemies" and BFFs, the game being played is far more elusive  --- and therefore devastating --- in its cloaked, inscrutable intentions, shuffling loyalties, deep-seated and petty origins.  "This," she tells viewers, "was Girl World, and in Girl World all the fighting had to be sneaky."

The last laugh goes to Joan Crawford after being (deservedly) betrayed in 1939's "The Women"

That very same brand of offhanded, indirect incivility is what especially irks me in regards to "All About That Bass."  Nicki Minaj is at least explicit in expressing contempt for those who don't fit in with her self-fawning, lap dancing coterie.  Meghan Trainor, on the other hand, is less transparent in her negativity, diverting our eyes with a halcyon backdrop of bubblegum pink and piled tulle, our ears with jukebox-ready doo-wop.  Both singers reduce and define their adversaries by looks alone, correlating an enviably thin body with the spiteful, privileged sort of Alphas who would rig pig's blood to dump on ugly-duckling Carrie at her prom or exclude Elizabeth Bennett from the company of Lady Catherine de Bourgh or, more famously, exclude Cinderella from the ball.  

Two-faced Twosome:  Drizella and Anastasia Tremaine guarantee double trouble for Walt Disney's "Cinderella" (1950)

It's as if assumed that those who are thin have an innate advantage in life, and are therefore "fair game" for attack, their unbridled egos in need of taming.  Skinny girls have had their day in the sun, they seem to suggest; these entitled snobs are well overdue to meet their comeuppance.  For Trainor, it upends her song's purported intention when she resorts to casting broadsides, especially given their manner of delivery, which is casual, fluffy, upbeat.  It stinks of disingenuousness and misdirection.  I'd compare it to seeing a resentful Snuggle bear snuff-out Boo the Pomeranian under all those downy-soft sheets, perceiving him a rival for "world's cutest."

Snuggles can't be trusted (nor anything so outwardly cheery).

It's Been Said
"On the whole, people who say demeaning things... feel excluded or not part of the core group, so as a result they just mock it." - Anna Wintour

Thus spoke the steely VOGUE editrix in R.J. Cutler's 2008 documentary "The September Issue," whose words may help explain the facetious tone packaged by Trainor's team and their ultimately glib approach to feminist thought.  Despite protestations that she was misinterpreted --- that criticisms of her wording are "base"-less (pun intended) --- there is clearly a grudge being illustrated in her video.  I speak of course of how she mangled her message of universal body love by including that scorned brunette, she so isolated from all the other kids, forsaken, with only her heels and cling wrap couture as consolation.  Yes, we still witness "the obvious malnutrition of most Fashion Week supermodels" (to quote from Chloe Hamilton of London newspaper The Independent, as referenced in my previous column).  However, slamming the thin in popular media is no solution to a dilemma far more nuanced than tawdry websites like Skinny vs. Curvy might suggest.  Are we truly helping to address a First World obsession when so-called "forward-thinking" artists (and I'm speaking beyond Trainor here) continue to fan the flames of body dysmorphia and the related routes in which we --- girls especially --- screen, compare, and,  consequently, appraise our physical selves?

As for the advancement of our gender, some have argued that Trainor accomplished nothing with "Bass," leading us in a circle, progress-wise.  One letter published to Entertainment Weekly's Feedback page (see the #1335/October 31, 2014 issue) reads:  "It's infuriating when women want to make some empowering statement about body image and only end up feeding into the hypocrisy.  Either you want women to accept their bodies or you don't --- leave size out of it."  

I will begrudgingly give her video some commendation, as it is certainly not without merits.  I especially appreciate its intention to lampoon censored, campy entertainment from a more "innocent," bygone era of soda jerks and "Beach Blanket Bingo," and it does well to counterbalances squeaky-clean with erotic lite.  For instance, in some shots she stands frozen with arms bent at ninety-degrees.  Posed, poised, she hovers in attendance of her Ken-clone date --- herself a doll, a store display, a lobotomized, cheerfully-servile Stepford Wife.  Contrastingly, in others she takes full permission to trace up and down her own hips and bust, or to lay suggestively (as shown above) on an unkept field of rainbow chiffon, not unlike Mena Suvari in her "American Beauty" rose petals.  Throughout, the "come-hither" bedroom eyes on Trainor's face communicate that girl power and sex appeal mustn't be mutually exclusive --- nothing Madonna or Lady Gaga haven't said before, but nonetheless worth repeating.  Of course, she's not exactly charging out of the starting gate when it comes to poking fun at '60s camp --- even Doris Day poked fun at her own Avon Lady image with the remarkably self-aware "Pillow Talk" comedies.  And as far as art direction, I would be more eager to applaud the tangy magenta-and-meringue color scheme if it wasn't such a close match with what "My Best Friend's Wedding" used in its title sequence some seventeen years prior.  That memorable,  adorably chaste three-minute routine was likely groomed as a wry homage to Ann-Margret's singing-to-the-camera start-off for 1963's "Bye Bye Birdie" and it remains one of the more striking elements of an otherwise tame, mainstream romantic feature:

All Creatures Great And Small
"Some people are cruel and dishonest for sport --- but there are lots who are fighting a good fight and running a fair race.  That is what deserves the attention and energy." - Julia Roberts

The strongest thing going for "All About The Bass" is ultimately the acknowledgement that close to everyone sees themselves as flawed:  "No, I'm just playing.  I know you think you're fat,"  Trainor says, albeit in a garbled aside when panning "stick thin Barbie doll" types.  That commonplace dissatisfaction can be remedied, or at least partially relieved, by searching deeper --- learning to detect value beyond a superficial facade.  After all, the notion that our quality of appearance, especially as perceived or by others, determines how we feel is achingly flawed.  

"Wouldn't it be great if [instead] we could worry about our intellect and our character, [rather than our looks]?" asks one professor, Renee Engl.  studying body image and objectification at Northwestern.  Women need to move the conversation away from beauty, she tells Vox in a compelling critique published September 12th.

It all comes down to embracing our perceived enemies, to finding common ground with those who seem on the surface so different.  If "All About That Bass" had emphasized this more, perhaps inviting that "bitch" brunette to dance with the other revelers, I would be happier with the ultimate impression of the Meghan Trainor product.  To work together, curbing our divisiveness, with less importance paid to defining (or, in this case redefining) a woman's most appreciable assets --- THAT could really have said something worthy of world wide dissemination and prattle.  

As it stands, we will continue to overgeneralize and misinterpret, to rank and pigeonhole while halfheartedly scrolling down, passively swiping left -- leafing through and "channel surfing" (to use dated parlance).  When we "like/unlike" with knee-jerk immediacy we leave little room for nuance.  That is the nature of prejudice -- hate requires less effort than amity and propagates as a naturally occurring human reflex.  Compassion asks you to look beyond that which is immediate, comfortable, easily embraced, digestible.  A person can't be reduced to a selfie, and ideas stretch out and over any combination of  headlines, hashtags, or memes --- no matter how aggressively trending.  No one --- and nothing --- can be reduced to three minutes of YouTube, or 140 characters.

We were all once children, and remain so.  Challenges Oprah, shown above in youth:  "Are you ready to stop colluding with a culture that makes so many of us feel physically inadequate?  Say good bye to your inner critic, and take the pledge to be kinder to yourself and others."

"You are worth more than a waistline," proclaims twenty-five year-old singer-songwriter and spoken-word artist Mary Lambert in "Body Love."  "You are no less valuable as a size 16 than a size 4.  You are no less valuable as a 32A than a 36C."  Her video moves between poetry's brusque recital and a collection of black and white portraits of "real" women up close --- each one honest and tender, strong and sad.  In tone, it's not far off from what one meets at the therapy circles of recovery centers specializing in abuses of the system, whether for addiction or eating disorders or both.  It's nothing if not cliched, especially considering how familiar many of us are with the credit sequence for Netflix's "Orange is the New Black" (which features revolving closeups of female faces as paced to Regina Spektor's "You've Got Time").  Lambert has seen recent recognition for her raw, unapologetic, open-diary compositions as well as collaborations with Macklemore & Ryan Lewis, as learned when I happened upon a briefing on her in the November 17th issue of People (see the still life below).  Unlike Meghan Trainor, who presents as a friendly girl-next-door with an uncomplicated medium build, Lambert is truly of a larger, less commercial, packagable presence.  Physically, her size is far beyond Trainor, her story also richer and more challenging.  A survivor of sexual abuse who was diagnosed as bi-polar at the tender age of fifteen, her lyrics reference anything from self-harm to her own homosexuality.  With a five year lead on Trainor there is discernible difference in the nature (and expression) of their perspectives.  

The concentric circles within wood serve as a metaphor in Lambert's  "Body Love"; the article depicted comes from People Magazine, Vol. 82, No. 21

Neither one strikes me as awesomely deep, but of the two Lambert is more interesting, her voice more practiced and artful.  I can imagine "All About The Bass" doing well in households with children still playing in their mother's castoffs, whereas introspective, angsty high schoolers would likely respond to something more freeform.  (And to those put off  by the rainy Prozac ad drudgery of "Body Love," her more uplifting "Secrets" will likely reverse your eye rolls.)  In my mind, Mary Lambert drips beads of black coffee on the sugar-spun cloud of Meghan Trainor, by degrees deflating and dispersing the pop star's rose-colored, hypnotic haze.

And in a welcome departure from any of the artists I have explored here, "Body Love" points to our unique personal experiences as the true measure of our attractiveness.  "Your sexiness is defined by concentric circles within your wood -- it is wisdom," she reads.  This visual I have personally identified with in my own process of growth, as it has helped me to own past traumas and joys as equal parts of my composition.  In discussing Lambert's work, one contributor to The Huffington Post expounds:

"Every circle in our tree is proof that we've lived.  Every lesson is a notch in our bark.  Every person who has crossed our path is represented in the rings that form our personal redwood.  The concentric circles are the guestbook of your life.  Why would you want them to go away?"

Know your roots, in other words.  Recognize your knots; find seated security in your trunk.  Regard girth and bulges, or Olive Oyl lankiness, or stains, stretches, scars, cracks, pox marks, and split ends as the products of experiences weathered; an indication that you are of organic, living material.  Secretly salute the same in others.  

Remember:  a tree throws shade only when it is intended as shelter and relief, a helpful respite.

Puttin' On The Ribs

THIS YEAR, FASHION WEEK RESEMBLED "FASHION WEAK" WITH ITS NOW-FAMILIAR TIDE OF CATWALK WAIFS.  A FEW THOUGHTS ON AN INDUSTRY TRAFFICKING IN DANGEROUS IDEALS.

The latest from Emporio Armani's spring/summer 2015 sports line, unveiled in Milan to murmurs of shock and concern.  In promoting its attendance of the show, The Sunday Times of London was cut down to size (so to speak) after it tweeted the above from the viewing gallery.

To those in northern territories, late-September heralds the transition to ominous autumn skies flanked by blazing, golden fields and forests of unpredictable ombre; it is in this time of change we enter the Libra period of the Zodiac belt.  For those unfamiliar with symbols of astrology, the configuration of stars that determine this sign are roughly comparable to the shape of an ancient scale or balance, such as the mechanisms used to measure Roman coins, or librae.  Thus, the motto assigned to children born within this zone:  "I weigh."

I find this eerily appropriate, given that heaviness --as in a woman's heft and proportion-- is not only a regretful fixation of my own, but also the many patrons of international Fashion Week.  Having now wrapped official shows in New York, Paris, and London, these semi-regular, slavishly engineered events involve the world's most exclusive clothing houses.  Respected participants promote hotly anticipated new looks, fitting all manner upon dewy-faced sylphs who stride and pose upon elevated stages, bearing on their taught, angular frames what presenters hope will become the soon-to-be-coveted trends --- whether in direct sales or as mirrored by others.  Celebrities and style forecasters will from there dictate what is ultimately popularized, cherry-picking various aspects of a designer's line and stylization for approval and endorsement.  Generally in this system, an ensemble gains initial prominence when worn by an individual of notoriety.  Fresh, "edgy" wearables take longer to become firmly embedded into the broader mainstream, and once they do so they are, ironically, no longer considered covetable, or at least not by the savviest couture snobs.  At this point, the elite distance themselves from such "tired" frocks, replacing them with the next reimaginings from Bryant Park or the Carrousel du Louvre.  This is why updated installments of designer lines arrive as quickly as themes can be reworked and produced --de novo or in recognizable incarnations-- as to be en vogue one must be, above all else, unpredictable.

Who --or what-- is for sale?  (Stella Tenant by the fabulous & fantastical Tim Walker, VOGUE Italia circa 2000)

Yet still, season after season, one rule is as rigid and unchanging as Anna Wintour's severe bob and unflappable reserve.  Be it hair and makeup, mood music, even the health/race/age/class of the models themselves, every aspect of a successful runway presentation is put in place to be disseminated and absorbed.  Those eager for and capable of sartorial reinvention will take-on the newly-minted traits and gimmicks, demonstrating in a mere arrangement of materials what it means to be of the moment.  Coco Chanel once observed that "being different" is the sign of an irreplaceable, extraordinary individual, yet the very industry in which she gained notoriety is founded on parrotry.  Fashion operates as a delicate juggling act, a difficult trick in which style-mongers and their ilk express themselves as one-of-a-kind but also summon recognizable, definable schools of dress.  This is where we return to the idea of balance.  How can we be unique, listening to our own instincts and inclinations, forging our own pathways, living in the margins --- yet also not "rocking the boat" with such vigor that we completely overturn it, drowning ourselves in the process?  How can we be both unconventional AND approvable, in-step yet also willing to challenge and tweak the accepted uniform?

Now behind us:  Christopher Kane's designs from Milan, March 2014 (Photo:  Christopher James, British Fashion Council).

In the publishing realm, a brand is called an "imprint," reflecting the original process of applying pressure to mark paper with a carefully arranged message.  I am surprised that this term is not more regularly associated with brands of clothing, given that in order to stay profitable, their ultimate purpose is to imprint upon the public what constitutes the fashion du jour, i.e. what we should consider --by their authority and verdict-- the most covetable modes of dress and physical condition.  It's about generating new sales by getting us to believe in the merchandise they choose to spin, subscribing to what's "in" and "out" as seen in a catwalk stage show.  And with fashion, everything is being merchandised --including the models.  The models are the face of the industry (and also its breasts, stomach, legs, arms, hips, hair, and thighs).  For this reason, how these women and men come across has substantial impact on the public, for they serve as our standard bearers, our beacons in the fog of overwhelming opinion.

An additional view of the Armani presentation (Photo:  Vittorio Zunino Celotto/Getty Images)

Much comment has been made in the last twenty-odd years in regards to the ever-shrinking BMIs of those selected to represent the Big League labels, particularly their most prominent covergirls.  (I will speak more on this in my follow-up entry, an essay pertaining to curvaceousness in popular music --think: "Bootylicious"-- as paired with the phenomenon of "skinny-shaming," itself a reaction against all-too-often-caustic "thinspiration.")  The much-publicized heart failure and subsequent death of Uruguayan model Luisel Ramos in 2006 has aroused efforts to regulate the health of those hired to stride upon the slick elevated platforms.  I'll resign myself for now to end with excerpts from British newspaper The Independent, which wrote with unmistakable frustration on the prevalence of noticeably wan representatives in the latest round of designer presentations to be unfurled upon its home turf.  As an individual with a state of health comparable to or even beneath Ramos', I at times hesitate to sponsor the repeated refrain of:  "these girls look awful; they should be removed from the public eye."  I personally subscribe to the notion of selective exposure -- that a very thin person has a responsibility to display less of an area --say, an especially corrugated ribcage or origami-sharp triangle of shoulder blade-- if said feature is demonstrative of a perilous standard.  It's simply a matter of decency.  The opinion in the UK write-up read to me as a tad condescending, coldly referring to the models as "emaciated creatures."  Such dismissive objectification is nothing new and certainly exists in many number of forms within a superficial field.  Even so, I believe it bears further dissemination and gladly volunteer space herein to the author's voice:

The photos from London Fashion Week all look the same.  Identikit parades of skeletal women prowl down the skinny catwalk in front of hundreds.  Collarbones jut fashionably from beneath the strips of cloth that barely cover their modesty, or their protruding ribs, and their strikingly beautiful but gaunt faces all say the same thing:  I'm hungry.

Despite the obvious malnutrition of most Fashion Week supermodels, however, the media continues to print the pictures, giving the industry's 'thinspiration' message airtime and making the press implicit in the projection of an impossible and unhealthy image of beauty.  [...]  It's a shame plus size fashion has gone largely unnoticed again at this year's London Fashion Weak, shunned in favour of models with sallow faces and sharp elbows that grace the covers of newspapers and glossy magazines, their poised but starved bodies inspiring thousands of easily influenced teenagers.

As the emaciated creatures process down the Fashion Week runway tonight to a barrage of flaying lights and fashion accolades, spare a thought for the 13-year-old girl who will skip breakfast when she sees the photos in the paper tomorrow morning.  The fashion industry has the power to cause serious damage, and the responsibility to ensure it doesn't.  - Chloe Hamilton, September 17, 2014 (The Independent, no. 1,189, London, UK)

*  *  *

"Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes." - Henry David Thoreau, WALDEN (1854)

To Have My Cake And (Not) Eat It Too

What a great array of sweets are made available to those of First World status!  And yet our wealth of bakeshop delicacies means nearly nothing to an anorexic --whether observance owes to a holiday, birth, matrimony, or other, more garden variety occurrence.

For entertainers in the television arena, there's no sweeter dessert than an Emmy --its sharply-stepped lightning bolt wings protruding triumphantly skyward-- to validate your efforts.  Although I remain begrudgingly removed from that industry in my own work, I was pleased to learn that this year's ceremony will be broadcast live from Los Angeles on the evening of the 25th, which just so happens to be my birthday.  It should offer a pleasant escape into red carpet pageantry and "insider" tattle, which I admittedly subscribe to now and then via the scrolling headlines of online gossipmongers.  My father's health has been touch-and-go, his system (and attitude) showing stubborn resistance and mild collapse under more aggressive approaches to chemotherapy.  Fortunately, today he's demonstrating improved resolve on most if not all fronts and, with it, my own outlook has rebounded somewhat.  If the recent, frustrating days in --which I watched him dismiss offers of nourishment, succumbing to anguish both physical and cerebral-- have left me with any leading lesson, it is that most acquaintances, be they family or other ilk, expect that I would not be so petty as to distract from his battle competing issues of my own.  But in truth, my "demon" is also a disease, malignant and very real.  I understand many will regard me as loathsome to air grievance, especially as a white American living under the umbrella of my parents' charity (with government assistance an inestimable boon unto itself, and recognized as such).  However, I simply must repeat that living with an eating disorder is not a walk in the park.  (Okay, some days it IS less of a struggle to get by and DOES in fact involve charging through a public green or plaza no and then.)  But a paralyzingly fear of change, and with it any increases in calorie measure or content, keeps me leash-bound to a very limited spectrum of foods and possible endeavors.  I try to address this dilemma with a sort of Groundhog Day approach --wherein I exploit the redundancy of a restricted routine to improve my art and attitude in baby steps. But hours free from household chores/nurse-care/wedding prep/compulsive exercising/paralyzing sleep are fleeting.  I am jealous of my father in that even when ill he still manages to consume much more than I might on any given day.  And he knows not of the tremendous guilt I feel when I do "indulge," even if I reassure myself that food is the power force necessary for life (and that I am all-too-haggard anyway).  I am fortunate to permit myself great quantities of iced tea to take the edge off an empty stomach; thus I realize I don't have it "all so bad."  I just wish I could grasp the nettle --or, more accurately, the provisions and possibilities made available to me-- without someone having to hold my hand for reassurance.  I yearn to strike a balance between obeying the rules of my disorder and the allowances of a "normal" eater ---to have my cake and (not) eat it too.  Most clinics dealing with anorexia strive to eradicate it outright, but I believe this is unrealistic once you've *literally* embodied it, as I have, for a lifetime --that compromise is (for those patients of somewhat advanced age) a more feasible solution.  Even with a major fashion event like an awards show I spend most of the telecast away from a TV because, unless watching from a gym, I cannot incorporate exercise into rapt scrutiny of the screen.  Instead, you'll more likely find me zipping down the backstreets of town, catching newly-released photos of the dresses being paraded via iPhone.  Then, with energy sufficiently spent, I'll make my way home.  There I'll prepare a late dinner, changing into more comfortable attire and cleaning myself of the day's goo 'n grime in the process.  I eventually situate myself comfortably in order to tune-in, but by that tardy stage of the proceedings most newsworthy happenings have been seen and commented on by the world and I am again late to the table.  By my own volition, once again I come up short.

A part of me envies those who show resourcefulness in helping themselves (especially to a treat).

POSTSCRIPT -- At last weekend's Creative Arts Emmys, Discovery Channel's crab fishing reality series Deadliest Catch netted a trophy for Outstanding Cinematography in its field.  And the title of the episode submitted?  "Careful What You Wish For."  Not yet sure of the implication, but I'll consider that a sign.

Cold Comfort

(Vintage appliance logo for Sears' Coldspot® refrigerator line)

Awaiting apprisal on my father's condition --he having been released only moments ago from hospital care for ulcer management-- I find distraction in the sunny images of a June 1956 McCall's ("The Magazine of Togetherness").  Feast on these ice cream and/or beverage-themed minutiae from its pages -- and read my related, if not outlandish proposal to a local outreach program seeking to make "gains" (literal and metaphorical) in eating disorder treatment and awareness.  Sent by e-mail to the executive director of this not-for-profit (as well as to my sister and a friend), the following is the conversation we exchanged electronically over three sweltering days in late July.

McCall's June 1956, p. 150 (detail)

From:  Lorena S.

Message:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Mulling over a sponsorship program for recovery, Project AnorexiCone, perhaps, in which I eat at Dorman's daily for a month.  Donors to the program would receive my original artwork; I'd post photos of me with my ice cream on an Instagram feed.  Silly  but also serious.  Anyway, I want to kill two birds with one stone-- help others, myself, and maybe bring some attention to the issue.  I could certainly use the motivator of being held accountable.  Maybe not the healthiest way to go, but it could be an interesting approach to this crazy situation and help me raise funding for a future elsewhere.  Is this just totally ridiculous?

From:  Jennifer S.

Reply:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

I'll donate.  Not sure you can use Kickstarter though.  They have very particular rules about what constitutes a project and anything similar to funding moves etc. doesn't count.  You may get money to pay for the ice cream though.  Look into it.

From:  Mary O.

Reply:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Gee, Lorena, I don't know.  It's a creative idea and gets me thinking about using such an approach to fund our new Eating Disorders Association of Maine -- however, I don't know you and would have to defer to those who do…  Would this be good for you?

As an aside, if you look at EDAM's website, you'll see some photography.  Their board has spoken about wanting to include original art by people who have struggled with one or more of these illnesses.  If you ever would like to donate a piece to be included for consideration, please let me know.

All the very best,

Mary

McCall's June 1956, p. 120 (detail)

From:  Lorena S.

2nd Message:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Mary,

You are right to hesitate, as I have been flirting with something like this for at least a year now.  Initially, I wanted to use Kickstarter for a campaign called Milk Money, in which concerned parties would chip-in so that I might buy (and, naturally, consume) a milkshake per day.  I once told Dr. B. that me drinking such a thing would be the equivalent of seeing me leap from a tall building (as far as risk and fear are concerned).  But I have had several people suggest locally-made shakes (as opposed to fast food versions) because such things include relatively wholesome ingredients (such as milk, obviously).  At any rate, I was all gung-ho about the Dorman's idea last night but now again am thinking it's a weird, tacky vanity project.  I think that hearing about the fellow who raised thousands for making potato salad has shot my head into the clouds.  I suppose I figured that people would forgive the charity angle as long as they were indeed receiving art in exchange for funding -- and I know nothing gets me feeling accountable quite like the double spotlight of sponsorship AND publication via social media.  I wonder if anyone would realize how much of an unprecedented move this would be for me -- or if, instead, I would inspire viewers to scoff in disdain.  To be quite honest, I might rather put-together something titled Part of A Complete Breakfast in order to ensure that I truly eat a healthful meal during the day, as I still reserve most of my food for the late evening hour.  However, the logistics of such a campaign are less easily outlined, and certainly not as headline-grabbing as the ice cream route.  But, again, I was writing on a lark and likely won't do it (unless I hear resoundingly positive feedback, of course, which is doubtful).  But I know I am in a position to help bring awareness to a taboo subject that many refer to as their deepest shame and undoing.

Striving for change,

Lorena

McCall's June 1956, p. 122

From:  Mary O.

2nd Reply:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Hi Lorena,

I get it -- and I'm so pleased that you are still striving! 

I do like the idea of having, rather than ice cream, a complete breakfast. 

Maybe first eat breakfast, then after awhile add - dare I suggest it - lunch. 

And then - when possible - dinner.  Three actual meals a day.  Ah! Success!

All the best,

Mary

McCall's June 1956, p. 119

From:  Greta V.C.

Reply:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

If I ate Dorman's every day for even just a few days, I'd feel really sick.  It would probably be worse for you than what you're doing now.

I don't think you need Kickstarter for this, although a chunk of money is always nice.  You just need to know that we are all relying on you to take care of yourself, and we are.  I like the Instagram idea though!  Why not add to your daily intake and Instagram your meals?  But no cheating.  You have to eat whatever you post.

McCall's June 1956, p. 14 (detail)

From:  Lorena S.

3rd Message:  A small Kickstarter:  gaining #'s by way of Dorman's Dairy Dream

Yeah, you're likely right.  Ice cream is not the best band-aid.  Oddly enough, Mom just won a twenty-five dollar gift certificate to The Camden Cone.  Talk about serendipity!  It expires in October 2016, so that gives me some time to get my act together (ha).

"Missed Opportunities" or "Too Late", acrylic on 16" x 12" canvas, 2011 
(with spoon added August 2014, shortly after writing this entry)

Totems of Transylvania, Prefigurements of Malady and Disruption

What new terrors await unmasking? Blinded (and blind-sighted) by present complications.

Strange, perturbing happenings have descended upon my little world -- a fast-moving fog shrouding my life with uncertainties and new concerns.  Just as an infusion of milk might hang and twirl in a tumbler of cold summer tea, an opaque murkiness muddies my comprehension of where things lie.  Friday evening, news broke that a lifelong pal, our high school class valedictorian and virtuoso researcher, had been admitted to the Coronary Care Unit of a Brooklyn-area hospital.  According to his anxious and understandably distressed mother, a colleague had escorted my friend to Park Slope Presbyterian earlier that day after the chambers of his heart became blocked and slow to function.  Apparently, appraisal by emergency room attendants swiftly led him to the management of cardiac specialists and, as of mid-day Saturday, rumors of surgery for a temporary pacemaker had been substantiated -- by a woman calling from Europe, no less.  (Needless to say, this fellow has a far-reaching path of influence.)  That an otherwise robust thirty-three year-old holds in his chest such an instrument is both bewildering and wholly unexpected.  To relieve the serious mood amongst those effected I've started observing that, like Darth Vader, he's "more machine now than man."  Perhaps he will emerge as some sort of modern variant on The Six Million Dollar Man?  Certainly, knowing the cost of healthcare, his bill may approach such a tally.

To paraphrase Jessica Rabbit:  "I'm not bad.  I'm just dyed that way."

The parents of the afflicted felt an understandable desire to drive through the night to reach his bedside, and, in their absence, I adopted my usual duties of caring for their cat.  Now it begs inclusion that this perfectly genial and good-natured animal had the misfortune of being born a black breed, which, although elegant in appearance, carries with it the stigma of superstition.  As most of us are told as young and impressionable Trick or Treaters, popular thought connotes such animals with the Devil's brand of bad luck.  Jack truly is a friendly and appreciative creature and in no way deserving of a prejudice built by centuries of myth and dubious allegory.  However, it is well worth mentioning, as only later that night a bat no larger than a moldy lime scrambled down our chimney as I sat adjacent, eating my second, larger meal for the day.  Exhausted and apathetic, I failed to devise his release or (God forbid) extermination.  As with other species of fauna maligned by negative reputation, I harbor special interest and sympathy for these ostensibly liminal beings.  Dismissing tenets of demonology and Gothic literature, I instead revere their delicate beauty, fascinating taxonomy, and remarkable physical capabilities.  Furthermore, being that they are a sort of hybrid of rodents and birds --two of my favorite animal orders-- they are to my tastes just as charming.  (I am confident Beatrix Potter herself would have made delightful characters out of them, and perhaps she held specimen in her menagerie at one time, despite their jarring absence from her more familiarized cannon.)  The bat took several turns of flight, tracing the rectangular perimeter of our large back room, then melted into shadows.  Over twenty-four hours passed without indication of his presence, with reemergence timed for midnight Saturday.  Now making circles in our front corridor, he quite literally whooshed past the faces of my parents as they gingerly felt their way down the bannister from the second floor bedrooms.  Despite it being late (beyond midnight) and with my father in a state of undress (his nightgown), they were determined to get him to the ER, a good twenty-minute drive north along coastal Route One.  Having changed into trousers and summoned my mother, he hurriedly explained that urgent medical care was necessary -- available pain killers had already proven ineffective.  Apparently, a ripe canker in his abdomen had become unbearable; under its impact he was now succumbing to fainting and fever.  Every year with the first signs of fair weather my father tackles scraping and repainting of our mid-nineteenth-century townhouse.  For as long as we had seen summer he had been displaying symptoms commonly attributed to lead poisoning:  constipation, difficulty sleeping, irritability, low appetite, even lower energy.  Naturally, it was not unreasonable to assume this as a probable diagnosis given his frequent exposure to old layers of veneer in his work with clapboards, porches, and, most recently, a rickety, neglected trellis.  Bloodwork had not found evidence to substantiate our suspicions, but something was amiss with his gastrointestinal functions, and he refused meal suggestions with increasing regularity, opting for only the simplest foods and half-portions.  This of course has been distressing to witness; I have done my best to supplement his diet with liquid alternatives such as chocolate Ensure® vitamin drinks and strawberry-banana smoothies bottled by Odwalla®, a Coke® subsidiary.  All of this had come to a head  --quite literally, in fact, as that winged pest was now diving towards ours.  Upon safely reaching the local clinic and being examined it was determined that he should be given care there only until he could be transferred (by ambulance and on stretcher) to a more capable facility.  Apparently, all the doctors trained to administer the necessary endoscopy were away on vacation --sailing, likely-- and he would find better treatment awaiting him in Portland.  For the next day and a half my father was permitted no food as he prepared to cleanse his upper GI tract for the EGD.  Only by noon on Monday did we receive interruption from suspended worry and uncertainty, finally receiving an answer and, with it, mild relief.  According to a call placed post-surgery by the patient himself, two small stomach ulcers were detected during the procedure, which required immediate cordoning.  Also, we later learned, a tumor in his throat may be responsible for the random and violent hiccup attacks that regularly leave him croaking, muck like a dog straining under collar.  This is the most I can divulge as of the current hour; although cursory, the above report helps me feel like a responsible friend and daughter to those afflicted.  It calms my mind with its unburdening and confronts nagging concerns related to the two-pronged arrival of those iconic Halloween "fiends," those so-called harbingers of doom.

Marlon Brando was often seen as a friend of the misunderstood and the disenfranchised.  Here the actor is shown in his early days with a clearly beholden underdog --er, "undercat."  
He would have likely been a proponent of Black Cat Appreciation Day, arriving on Sunday the 17th.

I find comfort in addressing superstition directly, quelling its rumbles with written disclosure.  Illness is a natural and unavoidable part of life -- shades of death color all things.  For every ailment that brings our knees to buckle, another opportunity awaits for us to reclaim posture, composure.  As one popular Japanese proverb says, "fall seven times, stand up eight."  The bat that entered our home this weekend did not find freedom on his first few laps within its walls nor manage escape until his second day of residence.  But he chose to fly again, compelled by instinct and the invisible lasso of a rising August moon.

The Battle of Midway

Hanging tropaeolum, my first-ever "Instagram"

As we arrive at the first half of yet another month, my status is mired in the ambiguity of an incomplete passage, like tide waters caught between ebb and flow.  I like to fancy myself a proponent of health and healing, this blog in itself evidence of such inclinations.  And yet I continue to fraternize in the milky shadows of half-committment, with disordered behaviors dictating my days --even now, after sixty-seven posts.  Both caustic and tiresome, these proclivities leave my life forever derailed, if not staid and unpromising.  I feel discarded by the universe, like free-floating space shrapnel in repeating orbit, never to connect with fresh subjects or touch ground.  I am of dueling mindsets, pro-recovery and against, stubbornly entrenched in what is familiar and recognizable --even if that entails extraordinarily bizarre, always daunting rules of preservation.  Enchanted, deceived, and ultimately betrayed-- such is the history of my lifelong flirtation and partnership with this voluntary privation, fueled by a myopic preoccupation with thinness.  Even now, a third of the way into my second year of this site, I remain an obstinate fence-sitter.  A cliche exhibited in far too many advertisements and magazines is to use a headline such as The Battle of the Bulge to coyly convey the hard struggle of reducing one's measurements.  But let's be honest, if I am to reference any headlining World War II combat campaign for superficial purposes it would have to be The Battle of Midway, for such is my ambiguous, halfhearted positioning.  I am "mid-way"-- not wretchedly incapacitated by my disease nor beyond disability, not abstaining from dieting ritual but also not without my minor indulgences and moments of reprieve.  I consult an intuitive, valued therapist, but don't see much progress from our sessions.  I research and contact hoped-for treatment options, but while walking the back roads for exercise, iPhone at hand or ear.  I read "inspiring" quotes and advice columns, but fail to absorb their lessons.  It has become rather clear that no one, not my network of local specialists nor contacts within a modest social circle, will enforce the help I need.  At nearly thirty-two, I have to help myself.  But in maintaining the deportment of a misinformed, delusional, fearful juvenile I prolong adolescence --and with it, subordination to my benefactors (mother; father;  state service providers) and my disease (anorexia).  It relates to an article seen yesterday from Carolyn Hax, Washington Post columnist and life coach of a prefab, finger-food style.  On the matter of personal development, she suggests:  "Knowing what's right is hard.  Doing what's right is harder.  It's not about being unruffled.  It's about retraining ourselves to use more productive behaviors than the broken, maddening, ineffective, self-destructive old ones.  It's about figuring out our limits, and enforcing them.  It's stuff we can take decades to get right, if then.  Doesn't mean it's not worth trying."  But what manner of episode, be it momentous or even traumatic, must pass for me to earnestly try -- full-throttle, gung-ho, all in?

Finding solace and support in the daily papers

Until I might find the answers necessary to correct my straying course, I have charged these restless hands with projects serving as both distraction and necessary courtesy.  To pay tribute to the patience and compassion demonstrated by a dear friend, I have returned to a collage I began on my final day at the Maine Media Workshops.  The project was assigned by our instructor as an illustration of the following conceit:  "It is raining, but the sun will come out."  Immediately, I spun this into an allegory for depression and the restrictive rules we obsessive-compulsives appropriate internally, using splintered vertical lines and boxes of muted tones, in partnership with dripping black paint, to reference shadows, water, blood, tears, prison bars, darkened windows.  These elements alternate and intersect inside a busy, frazzled plane, a play of hard-edged patterns thickly woven.  Horizontal stripes intend to capture the idea of movement, bringing the eye from left to right, with intervening orange and lavender furthering the sense of broken, breaking rays --be they of sun, hope, or opportunity.

When I haven't been dallying within this claustrophobic landscape of magazine shards and crusty glue, I engage myself with family concerns.  First and foremost of these are the mounting financial obligations of my maternal grandmother.  I have intend to relieve some of her burdens by partnering as a representative for various products she produced in her heyday as a textile artist.   Although she continues to diligently operate as a purveyor of worsted wool yarns (dyed to her specifications in Portugal) she has not recently capitalized on the remains of previous business endeavors, in particular, woven luxury home goods produced in the early 1990's.  This same time last year I had measured, tallied, and photographed her substantial inventory of throws, shawls, and baby blankets, all thoughtfully designed by she in quality mohair, cotton, and acrylic chenille, respectably.  Using this data, in combination with good old-fashioned door-to-door salesmanship, I established tentative contracts with two Midcoast showrooms focused on locally-sourced housewares and finery.  Thus far, I am most excited by a collaboration effort with a well-connected interior decorator, one who owns and operates a waterfront showroom in a neighboring tourist enclave.  She is immediately recognizable as a woman of dignity and unfussy elegance, one with an experienced, perceptive eye and instinct for quality craft.  (What's more, it is an added bonus that she also just happens to be the third wife of screen legend Tony Curtis.)  In a separate campaign for cash, I have submitted half a dozen ads to Craigslist, and again to a regional traders' sourcebook, listing such like-new home appliances as a small gas generator, an oil-fueled water heater, and an electronic knitting machine.  These, along with a beat-up sedan and a few high-profile items, have been gathering dust in my grandmother's barn and are ripe for resale.  Unfortunately, her expectations lean towards higher amounts than one might realistically expect to collect, and has even insisted on placing these wares with "lucky" numbers, as influenced by her beliefs in a gathering spirit field and unified cosmos.  (Don't ask.)

Street detail, Los Angeles:  radial starbursts in tar

Closer to home, beyond serving in jury duty and dabbling for the first time with the photo sharing app Instagram (above), I am concerned by new behaviors exhibited by my father.  To his credit, at a weary 77 he is retrofitting aspects of his lifestyle -- taking more naps and insisting on meals of reduced complexity, richness, portioning.  Heavyset and pre-diabetic, he can doubtlessly benefit from a smaller waistline.  Yet even so, it raises my concern (and ire) that he would skip or refuse meal suggestions when upset, as if leveraging these lapses for a power born of sympathy.  He speaks of constipation and gastrointestinal distress, so his pains are not merely emotional, I'll admit that much.  I tell him he would do well to consult with an accredited dietician, providing the name of my own (who I have admittedly not seen for ages).  As of this summer, his general physician is unceremoniously retiring; therefore getting him to an internist must first involve registration with a new practitioner   Of course, the irony of the situation is not lost on me.  Even the aforementioned nutritionist wrote in an e-mail:  "It is very difficult to watch people you love being anxious about food and limiting food choices.  It must be particularly hard for you to experience how the people around you were probably feeling about your own issues."  Alright, Universe -- consider me humbled.  

When one's self is reflected in the life of another --
 is this what is meant by "the mirror has two faces?"

In Service of The Heart

A "Careful" Resuscitation

I have been a woefully negligent custodian of these pages.  I realize that.  My lax approach to writing affords me no license to brand myself a "blogger."  Even still, a nagging sense of responsibility impels that I deposit the occasional submission, and I hope there is at least one of you who derives benefit from the effort.  Irregardless, I can assure that when I do have something to share, that information is often precious ---and therefore assigned significance by way of mere inclusion.

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The last several weeks have seen me assume an unexpected (though most welcome) role:  Maid of Honor.  Almost precisely one month to this day my father received a long-distance phone call --on his birthday, no less-- in which the well-spoken voice on the other end kindly requested that he give his attention to a delicate matter.  Fortunately, it was Charlie --my sister's long-term beau-- requesting permission for a proposal of marriage, to be  promptly issued that weekend when taking recess to the coastal destination spot of Bournemouth, England.  Everyone in reach of our family is of course thrilled for the couple, none more so than my father, who wept tears of joy at the news.  With the wedding targeted for the first Saturday of September we were essentially allotted three and a half months to move from planning to execution, and I am trying my very best to devote extra effort to this new position of bridal consigliere.  Jenny is extraordinary on many counts; the strength and surety with which she conducts herself demonstrates the fierce will of a vintage Taurus.  Rarely have I sensed in the past that she needed my help for anything, so to act as her wingman on this momentous project is a unique opportunity and privilege.  It has also provided a focus for the summer, with very specific assignments and goals, the least of which being to improve my appearance.  I am no Pippa Middleton, but I do hope to make for a nice addition to the team flanking her altar.  And unlike Pippa, I would hate to divert attention from my older sister on the day that she adopts her partner's name.  I mustn't stand-out; my bearing needs to blend seamlessly with the other attendants, a company of ever-swelling ranks now claiming five bridesmaids and two groomsmen.  My sickness must not sour the ceremony, a milestone captured by countless trained eyes (if not digital devices).  I owe it to the betrothed to present myself within a degree of normalcy.  I cannot distract from or sully this chapter of their romance.  Don't cast shadows Lorena.  If anything, cast rice.

May Love Be Your Salve

Scout for ways to make a positive impact

Love is the most powerful tool that any sentient being can yield, stronger and more resounding than hate.  Whether carried by man or animal, it is his most valuable currency, capable of enormous impact when exchanged.  It doesn't depend on a certain level of experience or sophistication, having equal potency among all ages.  It is, quite simply, a major key to understanding Life's major whys and hows (or so I have come to conclude).  Accompanied by knowledge and craft, both creative and functional, love might be the illumination Carl Jung spoke of upon declaring,  "As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being."  

Indeed, few make a better argument for love's application than columnist Andrew W. K.  Writing from his weekly platform in The Village Voice, this astute counselor recently responded to a reader seeking relief from a depression so deep and penetrating that suicide had become a very real option.  His answer, while not unprecedented, was equally affecting and effective; I cannot speak for the original correspondent, but it profoundly resonated.  My veins, previously withered from caustic dysphoria, were immediately infused with a rich, burning charge.  Why not redirect some of that attention and energy consumed by depression elsewhere?  Stray outside of your own being and its stagnant concerns:  "[T]urn away from yourself and towards your neighbor.  ...  Give your love to the world and you'll get more purpose and meaning back in your life than you ever imagined possible."  

Please don't laugh, but have long intended to "do good", so to have that confirmed as a valuable, rewarding use of one's faculties fuels me with an extra pinch of brio.  All too often I view myself as burdensome to my family and detrimental to the earth at large; I markedly experience less self-loathing when I have taken pains to improve both houses.  Below, I have excerpted the sections of Andrew's essay that most seized my attention.  His reasoning falls closely in line with the "Thought for today" from June 16th, as opportunely published in Maine's Portland Press Herald the very morning I was piecing together this entry.  By Ivy Baker Priest, former U.S. Treasurer, the quote states:  "We seldom stop to think how many people's lives are entwined with our own.  It is a form of selfishness to imagine that every individual can operate on his own or can pull out of the general stream and not be missed."  If, after considering Priest's words, you are still questioning your place and value on the planet, I implore that you read on...

"It's healthy to think about life and death, even when we're feeling hopeless.  Or perhaps especially then.  We shouldn't be afraid to try and imagine what it would be like to kill ourselves.  Often times, it can help us get a refreshed perspective and appreciation for the astounding adventure we're part of, and how truly frightening and challenging it would be to really end it all.

"...[B]eing dead is an impossibly unimaginable experience anyway.  It might not even be an experience at all, but rather the total void of non-experience.  When I've been in pain, sometimes non-experience sounded pretty good.  Whatever it is to be dead, almost all of us have tried to fathom it, and in times of great anguish, we've probably wondered if it might be preferable to the discomfort of daily living.

. . .

"As far as dealing with depression, I have a simple suggestion that I think could work like magic to heal your soul and lift your spirits.  It's a very simple thing called... Helping other people.  Sometimes setting aside your own troubles and focusing on someone else's in their time of need can have an incredibly powerful effect on relieving you of your own despair.  This is especially true when you help someone you don't know.  Of course it's good to help family and friends, but connecting with someone unknown to you, and being able to simply exercise your good will, can provide a unique and uplifting energy that almost nothing else compares to.

"Some might say that helping other people just to make yourself feel good is selfish and not true generosity.  But I think the fact that it benefits you is exactly the point.  We are all bound together.  No matter how much we like to think of ourselves as unrelated and apart from others and their plight, we are, in fact, all in the same boat.  God or evolution or both have specifically wired our brains to feel pleasure when we help other people.  Our health responds positively to acts of human kindness, whether we perform or receive them.  This reward is meant to be tangible.  It's supposed to feel good to do good for others -- we're then motivated to do ever more good.  To be able to relate to someone else whom you never met before is to be able to relate more deeply to yourself."  

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And with that, reader, go forth and assist!