Sometimes I want to ask out loud, does the way the sun blinds you when you walk back inside to artificial lighting ever make you wonder what it would be like not to see defining features.
What if I couldn’t notice the chips in my nails, the food stuck on a spoon I delayed putting in the dishwasher?
What if the marks on my arm that make my skin red with too much sunlight just looked like the fuzzy blue of after sun sight?
Maybe it pays not to notice so many little things in need of perfecting.
Perhaps rigidity of form has less of a place among our self-evaluations than we like to think.
It’s possible the days would still pass, and my chest would still rise and fall even if I never noticed how well my weight fit in with the ideal, I imagine I should be striving for.
It may even be that our hearts would beat normally if we didn’t have a name for false imperfections, despite its normality…like cellulite.
To think, our veins could still have blood running through them if our hair looked different from each other.
Imagine how we’d live to see the day if the different colors in our skin didn’t require products to make it more uniform.
How long do you think it takes each artist to see the blues, purples, reds, and greens in skin?
When I stand in front of a work that didn’t blend the different dimensions and hues that make up a face, I’m in awe of the industry that tries to keep these mosaics away from their rightful place.
A spot that questions the steps we take to remove in the name of refinement.
The oils in my skin when they show could be painted and I would admire the stroke.
Yet when they’re captured in a photograph, I take note of all the things wrong.
I want to know who is responsible for this discrepancy.
Is it the hand that chose the colors, picked out the stroke, and took time to care for my details?
Is that why I admire the work…how would I manage to go to comparison war with myself if I saw a painting of my own face next to another?
I don’t think I could manage anything save for admiration of differences.
This is just another way to support my writing, and an excuse for me to show my dog off.