Imagine a young adult, an early 20-something, with long hair. They don’t have a reason to cut their hair. In fact, the long hair is more like a game to them: to see how long it will get, naturally, in a certain amount of time. A picture of them as a child wearing a dinosaur outfit with an angry face, hands up in mid-roar is somewhere in the history of their instagram. Because in this time of discovery they have become slightly obsessed with their own image as a child. What does it mean that that was once me, and now this is me? So in a “tbt” they post it and get a lot of likes because they really do look so cute in this image. They’ve changed now, and they are beginning to live in their bodies like lived-in houses.
There is a Greek statue that looks like that, a woman from the back and from the front it’s a man. I saw it when I scrounged some Saturday afternoon to go to The Met and I thought I was going to the East Asian wing, but I found myself lost in the Ancient Greek section.
Beauty falls like a heavy powder between the physical appearance and the character. It simply has to. An image does not capture the moving, breathing being that brings life to the complexities of a single expression.