The Original Nowhere

'...a seamed and folded imitation of a magazine picture that is itself an imitation of a woman who is also an imitation, the original nowhere...'

Margaret Atwood, Surfacing




This is a sketch of me, aged 11, I think, done by a school teacher in art class, and the passage from Atwood's book struck me just as I rediscovered this crumpled, folded A3 pencil sketch. I don't remember how accurate it was at the time, but it is eerie to be able to stare into a likeness of my own face, constructed by a middle aged man as I sat sill and patient, more than sixteen years ago.

Happy Birthday To Me

I open the old photo albums
expecting to see
the grotesque mirages
of myself
that I have become accustomed to
imagining

staring out at me
from every frame

but the girl
blowing out last century's
birthday candles
is today
not burdened
by those habitually fabricated
kilos,
imperfections,
monsters

these are not images
made blurry
by adolescent self hating insecurity

but crisp, clear
outlines of a girl

a pretty, pouting, posing girl

with poor posture
and badly fitting clothes

waiting for someone to tell her
she was thin enough
she was good enough

when she should have been able
to look in the mirror and see it
for herself.













can you count the candles on the cake? I can't. I think I'm 15 or 16 here. photographer unknown.

Middlesex

'Her body was a constant embarrassment to her. It was always announcing itself in ways she didn't sanction.'

A line from Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, that provoked first a visceral then photographic response. I've often thought how nice it would be to have a body that doesn't blurt out things we'd rather keep to ourselves, but then again, I doubt anyone has one of those.