Vanity Black

The Legendary Vanity Black from the novel

Internal Vanity: Perception, Deception and The Blackest Truth

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Perceptions Deceive

 Excerpt from the first novel of the Internal Vanity series. 
"Internal Vanity: Perception, Deception, and The Blackest Truth"

   
 

  Beauty is to goodness is to worthiness is to acceptance is to attraction is to love. From our mates and friends to the communities in which we’d like to live, all that we attempt to acquire is a reflection of our definitions and perceptions of beauty. However, in a world of perception, things aren’t always what they seem; perceptions are full of deception. What if all along you’ve been dancing with the devil playing in a wardrobe you presumed to be that of angels? What if that devil was playing dress up in an attire merely fixed to your perceptions: white wings, “good face”, and a smile? What if he or she is simply a jokester, a prankster, a chameleon, or cross dresser between a vague wardrobe of good and evil preying on your ignorance, conformity, or bigotry? What if good and evil has no distinctive face or attire? What if the devil is you? Would you believe it? Could you conceive it? Would you know the devil if you saw it, him, or her?

What if an angel’s wings aren’t white at all? What if

they were sleek, slick, and black like onyx? What if she was

sleek, slick, and black like onyx ... a black winged angel standing

before you in all her black-skinned beauty. Would you believe

her to be an angel of goodness or would you assume her

to be the angel of death, the grim reaper, the evil one, or the

brunt of bad news in a face and reference unfamiliar, less than

your notion of stellar, less than what you define as beautiful,

good, pure, trustworthy, innocent, honest, and full of love?

What if she were you; what if she were the reflection of you?

Would you believe it? Could you conceive it? Would you

know an angel if you saw it, her, or him?

What if angels have no wings at all? What if your

perceived or achieved fantasies were truly nothing more than

a collection of ugly realities that you believed to be full of

beauty? What if your perceptions were the result of your inability

to see because your mind and eyes were owned by the

devil? What if you found that you are actually attracted to The

Ugly: ugly things, ugly people, ugly beliefs, and an ugly way

of life, but all anointed as beautiful, truth, good, and worthy

by The Beautifully Ugly? And what if you found that every

thing in your life was just a mirror of your own reflection …

your own hideous reflection. Would you believe it? Could you

conceive it? Would you know ugly if you saw it, him, or her?

What if heaven is a brilliant red light amidst a vast dark sky speckled with colorful stars unknown, populated by faces and structures you’ve never seen, sounds you’ve never heard, and a face of God unperceived, misconceived … perhaps the face of a woman … perhaps the face of yourself? What if heaven and the face of God were painted in the blackest of black? Would you believe it? Could you conceive it? Would you know heaven or God if you saw It, Her, or Him?

What if hell is white? What if hell is flame free but cold enough to burn in more ways than one? What if it is an exclusive, infinite, and drafty confined space of white padded walls, white furs, white marble floors, luminous crystals, diamonds, precious stones, glass ceilings, and all the monetary wealth you desire? Would you believe it? Could you conceive it? Would you know hell if you saw it … or even heard or felt it?

What if there is no devil, no hell, or heaven but the

one’s you created … a world that is only as beautiful, angelic,

evil or ugly as your own reflection … a world that is merely

the reflection of your perceptions? Would you believe it?

Could you conceive it? Would you know your own reflection

if you saw it?

What if the notions of dark and light, good and evil,

heaven and hell, angels and demons, beautiful and ugly, masculine

and feminine are merely trained perceptions that have

nothing to do with The Truth? What if you found that your

mind and eyes were owned by deception and everything in

your life was just an ugly truth blurred in a purgatory between

reality and a pipe dream of the good, the bad, and the indifferent

without distinction? What if your hell is my heaven?

What if your heaven is my hell? Perceptions deceive.

Dr. Feel Good

What prescriptions for your existence have you consumed in vain?

A young man in pain is referred to see a doctor in a district called Doctor’s Row.  He makes his way along the long winding sidewalk lined with establishments offering an endless spectrum of this and that when he is suddenly taken by the sign of an adjacent clinic next to the doorways of his destination:  Dr. Thorough, a doctor that many call Dr. Feel Good.  With it's constant revolving door, the patient concludes that his office was the most popular of all as if it's popularity was synonymous with goodness.   But most importantly to the patient, he is struck by the sight of the people coming and going. They seemed to be of a “better caliber” than those of the neighboring offices. They also seemed blissfully happy. "This has to be the place to make my pain go away," he thought.   The patient peeks inside and is greeted by the sight of a woman who sits behind a desk with a smile plastered across her face as if she'd been awaiting his arrival.

     "Good Afternoon," she says in a giggly voice. "Isn't it a glorious day?"  

     Taken by her "sweetness" and "beauty", he enters the establishment and approaches her desk. Just as he is about to speak, she suggests that he sees the doctor next door...the one to whom he was initially referred.   But as if standing in line to the velvet ropes of Studio 54, the young man insists.  “I must see this doctor,"   he says. "I'd like to see Dr. Thorough."

     The receptionist snickers and shakes her head to his existence and like a fair godmother, she grants his wish.  “Very well then. He knew you'd come," she says.  “Have a seat. Fill out these forms and he’ll be with you shortly.”

      Hours pass and his pain becomes so unbearable that he staggers to the desk once again. “How much longer will it be?" he moans. “I’m in pain.”

     Without word and almost disregarding his existence, the receptionist shoos the patient back to his seat.

"Sit down!" she demands.

     Though he is a bit thrown by her sudden change in demeanor, the patient does as he’s instructed and a few staff members begin to giggle as if he were the butt end of a very bad joke. Hours pass and he observes that even patients who came in after him, somehow managed to be seen first. Still, he patiently awaits. Towards closing time and as the last patient of the day, he is finally called to see the doctor.

     "He will see you now." says the receptionist. The staff begins laughing uncontrollably as they gather their things to  close for the day while once again shaking their heads to his existence. Finally, the patient is taken to the great doctor he’d waited so long to see.

     Whoosh! Pow! Wow! And there he is... Dr. Thorough, aka Dr Feel Good. Standing before him like a beacon of hope and goodwill.

      “What seems to be the problem?”  says the doctor.

      “I’m in pain," says the patient.
      “Where is the pain?” Asks the doctor.
      “I don’t know,”  says the patient. “I feel sick all over.”
      After a series of "tests",  the doctor creates a prescription and hands him a pamphlet.  “Take this everyday for the rest of your life…read this everyday for the rest of your life.... and you will feel GOOD!” he says. “I will also need you to see me 5 times a week until further notice. If you don't follow this prescription, you will die.”
     Without question or objection, the patient agrees. The doctor then flashes the kind of smile possessed by one who’d just won the lottery.  “Thanks Doc. I feel better already.” says the patient.
     After returning home, the gullible and foolish young man finds that he is once again in pain. However, he continues with the doctor's orders. For reasons that vary, he is faithful that his doctor has his best interest at heart. Somewhere buried deep within his subconscience and within his life's trajectory, the patient had come to equate those like Dr. Thorough and the elements of Dr. Thorough's world as symbols of  goodness, trust, beauty, friendship, intelligence and  love. 

A year later,  the bills of frequent doctor's visits and costly prescriptions take quite the toll. But even the patient's closest friends could not deter him from the grip of Dr. Feel Good's whip. The patient consequently loses his home, friends, possessions, way of life... and the pain has yet to subside.  The patient damn near loses his mind. But still,  he continues to consume the same prescription and clings to his pamphlet like air necessary to breathe.  He never questions the doctor’s motives, never pays attention to his body’s plea, never does his own research, and refuses to admit that he is still in pain.  Like mind over matter, “Take this, read this and you will feel good” had become the mantra and soundtrack to his life...to his existence. 

 Several decades pass and now well into his 60’s, he makes his way to see his life long doctor and “friend” as scheduled.  Like a codependent relationship, the patient has also developed a need to show the doctor his loyalty and that he is doing what was asked of him….a somewhat doorstep of approval and sense of belonging.  For the first time however, he notices that Doctor’s Row had grown into something quite spectacular over the years. It was also renamed "Thorough Park".   There were now shopping centers, restaurants, hotels, theaters and rows of town homes, condos and the initial clinic to which he was referred is there no more. Thorough Park had literally turned into a bustling and thriving community. The patient enters the main building of which he'd  grown so familiar to find that it is now a grand foyer of tall marble pillars and crystal chandeliers. He wondered why he’d never noticed the change which had been taking place over the course of decades. The patient grows so sick that he is no longer able to stand and collapses to the floor.    He looks above to his reflection along the mirrors of the vast ceilings and the flash of countless doctors visits and costly prescriptions ascend from his conscience. Just as he is attempting to process all that he sees, several security guards ascend upon him as if he were a terrorist and  instantly interrogate him.

      “What do you want? Who are you? Why are you here?" they demand ... they yell.  
      Still on his knees, and unable to lift himself, the patient looks to them as if awaiting for a resolution.
“I'm in pain and I’m here to see my doctor," says the patient unable to comprehend their demeanor. He’d  come to believe that his years of loyalty would have given him a somewhat preferred status and place among the now thriving community.
     One of the guards pokes him in the chest as if to prove she's the toughest of all.  “And who is your doctor?” she demands in a husky voice
     “Dr. Thorough but they call him Dr. Feel Good.” says the patient. 
     The young woman laughs and shakes her head to his existence. “That’s not possible,” she says.
     “Why not?” asks the patient.
     “Because sir, Dr. Thorough is a gynecologist.”

The Power of Words by Antonio Wingfield

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Beauty... Like the sun,

it looms somewhere above, below, around and beyond

whether one can see it or not.

 

A Woman's Place

The Funhouse

The yellow haze of bold letters are  ignited upon the wide manmade construct greeting you as you make your way to the entrance, eager to be entertained.   Welcome to The Funhouse where everything is catered to your perceptions. It knows you. It was created with a formula with intent to disturb you but chose it’s name to appease you.  It knows your biases, your isms, your fears and your references to good and evil.  Like the word beautiful, there is such an irony in it’s name as the bright yellow lights beam happily in the midst of sadistic laughing clowns, howling demons, disfigured faces and cackling witches. One by one, they confirm your perceptions adding to your infinite collection of deception.

You will run from all of your references in search of that image of consolation until finally, like a grand finale,  a mirrored maze awaits and you are the muse. It’s a clear desolate room surrounded by morphing glass perfectly crafted to distort your reflection. But this isn’t any ordinary mirrored maze. It is not the kind that you will leave behind in only a brief depiction of your reflection. It’s a special kind of maze of long lasting impressions. Unbeknownst, there is one that will transcend permanent alterations, the distortion of your self perceptions, and the distortion of your mind and eyes. But whether or not you can distinguish your reflection from the vast collection will most likely depend on whether or not you know the truth of who you are...behind the prescriptions...behind the mask...behind the illusions.

What if all that you’d known of yourself had been a distortion all along and alas, the mirrored maze at The Funhouse has revealed the truth of you…whether externally,  internally or both blurred in the multiplied images across countless mirrors morphing,  melting, and bending. "Ha!" You laugh in the assumption that what lies before you is indeed the deception. "Ha!" You laugh again at all your preconceived notions.  One image after another entertains you as you rejoice that it is not of your existence. And then suddenly... in the midst of your perceptions and in efforts to bring you into consciousness, a bruiting hand reaches out to you and slaps you silly. But you’ll continue to grow giggly in an attempt to detach yourself from the truth.  Perhaps you’ve found that you  actually prefer your distortion in a superficial notion of your punch drunk delusion.  Perhaps you see a reflection that you subconsciously wish were your own. Perhaps you’ve found that you are afraid of yourself as it is in truth... choosing to pay attention to only that which you choose to see…that which you need to believe. And then finally....Boo! From within you quiver.  Your knees buckle and you begin to shiver. There it is....and it won’t allow you to leave without it though you’ll attempt to deny it. There it is fumbling and bumbling alongside you long after you’ve left The Funhouse in tears, screeching, whaling, and screaming…running away from the scariest monster of all….yourself and the perception of your own reflection.

The Beautifully Ugly

Turn the lights on!

Woosh! Pow! Wow!

If what looks good

Isn’t always good

Then why does it feel so damned good?

Turn the lights on!

It’s The Beautifully Ugly!

Arriving at the gates and sprawling hills of  The Willard Mansion

Tucked deep within another community of VIPS and velvet ropes

High Volt and High Watt, the lights are bright tonight

Even more luminous than the glare of headlights

As they pull into the circular drive

One by one, the spectacular modern day carriages arrive

Containing an exclusive selection in the hundreds of anointed

Spectacular reflections igniting in abundance

Woosh!  Pow! Wow! The lights are bright tonight

So bright that none can see

Woosh! Pow! Wow!  The lights are bright tonight

So vague their reflections as their spectacular riddles begin

With their carefully calculated glee and underhanded schemes

Creepy gentlemen and shady ladies armored with designer labels and deceptive gazes

With their freshly painted joker faces and remnants of plastic traces

Empty shells where the soulless dwells

Sprinkles of diamonds and things that shine

To distract the eye from the heartless swine

It's The Beautifully Ugly

The Hip Nice Nasty

Ascending up the steps into the grand entrance of something or a whole lot of nothing.

Ready willing and able

To do any and everything for that big grand entrance of that something or nothing. 

A buffet awaits.

A large buffet to feed upon the slop of their superiority complex.

The games await

Games to play God.

Clickety Clack,  Pickety Pat

Their dirty hands and dirty little feet

Clickety Clack,  Pickety Pat

Part time saviors and full time deceit

Clickety Clack,  Pickety Pat

Smiling faces and fang like teeth

Clickety Clack,  Pickety Pat

Hate abundant but missing it’s sheets.........................

(to be continued)

Time and The Masterpiece Gallery

                 

Time and The Masterpiece Gallery

Like an expression to her reflection, the artist stands or sits before her canvas anticipating “The Begin”.   Whether near or far, a showcase is looming and she is anxious of it’s reception. She doesn’t always know what it is that she wishes to create nor does she know how long she has. But the artist continues to sit or stand before the canvas of her reflection  in the anticipation of her creation.   She will eventually place her initial strokes….sometimes carefully, consciously and guided and other times unconsciously haphazard.   Like the birth of a child, the first collection  will result in a showcase that may or may not be met with great fan fair or approval. She may enter to a  thunderous applause as many await to adore, love and encourage her. Shall she defy convention and expectations,  it is an entrance that may be met with laughter, ridicule, objection, or shame.  Or perhaps there shall be no opinion, no thought or fan fair at all as if she never existed…as if her existence were worthless, insignificant and forgettable.   But no matter it’s reception, “The Begin” will begin as too will “The End”.  

 Alongside the artist  is her subjective but constant companion: Time.  Each passing hour is filled with life defining moments shaping her beliefs, relationships,   personalities,  desires, preferences and every element in between that will ultimately shape her life or lives with each minute leading to the before and the after. Once a future that seemed so far away, the present takes form to soon  become the past.   For some, their time seems to rush along like the speed of light and  for another, it may trickle like a turtle moving slowly along a fast paced highway perhaps uninspired by it’s next destination. Others may hold on to the remnants of a better time, cling to them for dear life and refuse to move forward.   And though the perception of it’s pace may vary from one to another, the truth of time is that it waits for no one. No matter the perception, the pace of time is shared equally in a given moment by us all. Decades will come and go and like an expression to a canvas that took great increments of time for the artist to create, each will paint her place in a segment of time that the world has come to know as history. And like the perception of  history, one's story is subjective to the interpretation  of the listener and the teller.  But within any great creation, a crossroads occurs when the artist decides if the work is complete or simply a work in progress. The artist must ultimately make that decision…sometimes by choice and other times by force.



Sun Goddess III



For the one of choice, she assesses what she see’s and determines whether or not to proceed...physically or mentally. She may choose to take an intermission perhaps never to return. She may choose to push forward while uninspired…going through the motions of  "living to live" without living much at all.   Perhaps she is incapable of proceeding or limited by her lack of utensils, the perception of her utensils, and more often than not: the perception of her own canvas.   If she chooses, she will proceed as  best as she can with what she has before her... within her.  And just when she thinks she is finished or satisfied, she may return to add more, to erase, to cover, to modify and sometimes start  again or at least to the degree that she can... or as her utensils become more abundant, efficient or as the perception of her canvas and creation evolves. 



For the one who’s plight is by force, her decisions are quite simple. She will do as she’s told. She will alter her canvas to the pleasure or discretion of another.   She may also come to alter her mind to the convenience and comfort  of another.   She will use tools of alteration as she is instructed and  relinquish her power and creativity  to the hands of another in an existence chained to the  self deprecating doorsteps of approval resulting in a  canvas that will merely be a reflection of all but herself.  And ironically, after countless transformations,  her creation may still  be tossed away and trashed by the very one who encouraged her many alterations…the one she assumed to be her beloved beholder.   But whether by choice or by force, the artist desperately attempts to reach a point of satisfaction or resolution… to finish the great masterpiece to her liking… a liking …or his liking. 

Nevertheless, that inevitable final stroke will begin in an “End” that may or may not reflect her “Begin” .   For some, the cheering crowd that once filled the gallery is there no more and for others the once empty gallery is now loud and full.   And for another it is just as it was from the moment “The Begin” began. But for most perhaps, the gallery will be a direct reflection of the manner in which the life was lived and the intent of the artist's collection…the perception of the artist's canvas and reflection.   But no matter the fan fare, the praise or the rejection,  the artist hopes to create that masterpiece, a fulfillment and  completion to some degree whether it is to the approval of another, herself or a combination of the two blurred by deception, perception and  confusion.  She still hopes to create something worthy of that inevitable final stroke, to finish, to perfect it, to get it right before the final curtain call…before her time runs out…before the reception… before the beginning of the perceived “End”. But perhaps the notion of completion or perfection is subjective and the final stroke whether intended or not is always to be the final stroke. Perhaps the grand finale or masterpiece is merely a reflection to the depths of the artist herself and can be no more or less than what it is. All that she is will reveal itself if only to her herself in the dark as it is in truth.    Perhaps in time, we all find time to make time in our own time and all that is or was….is and was to be. Or not.

The Written and Spoken Word

Her reflection is everywhere
The Woman in the mirror

Over the years she’d spoken many

Sung songs containing many

Words

At times carefully crafted

And at other times haphazard

Sometimes with approval

And other times met with much resentment and contempt

She’d also been the subject of many

Allowed the tongues of many

Words
To project onto her reflection
Some intended with love

And others laced with ill intent
It was an experience that made her quite qualified to speak on what a word had the power to do

Her reflection is everywhere.
The woman in the mirror

There was a time when certain words came easy to her reflection
Words spoken in abundance
The good, the bad and the indifferent
Some words rarely spoken
The good, the bad and the indifferent
There were also words bipolar to her existence
Words that could turn on her reflection in an instant  
Words of her own and yet shared by millions in one way or another
Some buried deep within her sub conscience
But awaiting at the doorstep of the conscious or unconscious
Standing upon the welcome or unwelcome door mat

Of the mysterious beholders opinion

Her Reflection is everywhere
The woman in the mirror
If she spoke it, would you believe it
If she wrote, could you conceive it.
Words sitting at the tip of her tongue
As they have so many tongues.
Shared back and forth and guided by intent

Words at the tips of her fingers

At the curl of her lips

Words defining her existence

A measure of her worthiness

A hierarchy of words
In a family tree of words

Born from foreign words

Giving birth to a generation of new words
In search for that collection of words
Or perhaps that first word to ignite a series of words
 Hoping to reconnect with an old word

Chipping away or plastered to her reflection

The good, the bad and the indifferent
Scars, banners and trophies
Subject to interpretation

Her Reflection is everywhere

The woman in the mirror
And the power of a single word
And it’s ability to alter one’s perceptions…
To become synonymous of a particular reference
Positive, negative or indifferent
Perhaps a perception ignited by a previous word
Or an army of words in a battle over one word
Positive, negative or indifferent    
Maybe a looming word
Taking on a powerful collection of words
Like a brave lone soldier attempting to save a soul Enslaved by a mighty Empire Of Words
Or perhaps to enslave a soul so free

Words awaiting to conquer

Lurking in the shadows

Inflicting beliefs bound by words.

Positive, negative or indifferent

Each contingent upon their origin
And the intent of the giver

Their power ignited by the willingness

Or unwillingness to be accepted by the receiver

Her Reflection is everywhere

The woman in the mirror

Perhaps her inability to recall those words is that they were no longer part of her new and current vocabulary. Or perhaps she fears revisiting them for they may overstay their welcome in a volatile conflict to her new collection of spectacular words.

How funny it is that some words come so easy and yet others struggle to surface

The good, the bad and the indifferent

Positive and Negative
Awaiting to be lived…or perhaps relived
Awaiting to be heard. Needing and wanting to be heard

Words of a Man

Words of a Woman so often contingent upon words of a man
Words of a God so often contingent upon words of a man
Each perplexed, sometimes indistinguishable

Blurred  and disguised by perception, interpretation and intent

Each projected onto her reflection

Consciously, subconsciously or unconsciously

To her mind, eyes and lips

Her reflection is everywhere

The woman in the mirror

Words like a masked gunman to shatter her reflection
Words of an angel to her own acceptance

Words that behold the truth of her existence

The dynamics of her many descriptions

Each word determining her countless prescriptions
Millions of words awaiting to find a place upon her reflection.
Words awaiting to be spoken and written. 
The Good, The Bad, Positive, Negative or Indifferent.

CHANGE

You have come back and unlike some,  I still don’t like you.
But like a foolish lover, I can’t seem to shake or resist you.
You’re a joker and a two faced backstabber
And I sometimes can’t imagine touching you with a ten foot pole. You and your ever changing faces but yet you have the audacity to ask me to trust you.
On my door step, there you stand
As if by now I should know why you have arrived.
Say something dammit!
Why have you come this day?
Look at you. Inconsiderate as always.
I'll have you to know that I have the urge to slam the door to your face.

You must try to understand
I would invite you in
But I am afraid of what you bring.
During our last affair, your infinite existence brought much drama. 
And as usual you then say that it was good for me...

That it was time.
Perhaps deep within, I know that you are...
And know that it is.
Maybe we’d get along better
If you’d just show me your damned hands.
I don’t know why I take myself through this.
Today is no different than our many visits before. 
You refuse to show or tell me anything.
And then leave me begging for everything.
But this time, your timing is beyond untimely.
I've just begun to grow accustomed to all that you brought during your last visit. Still reeling

You seem to love the idea of long courtships.
Love, money, life, success, failure,  death.
You just don't know when to quit.
So it should be no suprise to you that your arrival occupies too much of my time.
Too much emotion. Too much of too many endless somethings.
Look at you
Still too early. Still too late.
Still standing there with that mischievous look plastered upon your ever changing face.
Still the same old Change.
Now, isn’t that ironic?
I must admit
Our love hate relationship excites me sometimes.
That last visit was something to behold.
It’s the reason as to why I am in the place I am now
I suppose I should say thank you.
OK,  THANK YOU!


I know you must think I'm ungrateful and stubborn.
But your presence has become a symbol of my two greatest fears...
The End and The Begin
Like the death of all things familiar
You force me to mourn the passing of the old
You force me to to make room for the new
And here I am once again vulnerable
And attempting to comprehend your strange peculiar face.
Perhaps the truth is that I know you are good for me.
And as I contemplate getting to know you once again
I am beginning to understand that you are only here for a given time
So I suppose you can come in now.
I shall accommodate your stay…… with a little resistance of course
Until once again
It is time to say
Goodbye
In the anticipation of your next return. 

The Roaring 20's

Jazz, Art Deco, Flappers, The Harlem Renaissance and Josephine Baker. The words are synonymous with an era that I find to be one of the most intriguing time periods in fashion: The Roaring 20's. But as a designer fascinated with the history of fashion, I've come to find that there is so much more to ... Click to read more

Necessary and Unnecessary Alterations: Part 1

Aaaaah, and there she is: Mrs Makeover. A thunderous gasp erupts across the studio audience upon the sight of her. She’s a vision from head to toe all dolled up in her new hot this and her new hot that, hip and fresh.   “Out with the old and in with the new!”  Says Mr Makeover as he stands upon the stage preparing to explain what’s in and what’s out.   Seated in the front row of the spellbound audience is a loved one who is now overcome with emotion as the former ugly duckling, outcast, or outdated fashion offender parades about the aisle to the stage  all shiny and new.  Aaaaah, isn’t she lovely? There she is…Mrs Makeover. If only her friends could see her now. As the host continues to instigate, the loved one is now in tears with the applause of the audience acting as a catalyst to fuel the emotionally driven presentation. Work it Mrs Makeover! Smile Mrs Makeover! Go ahead Mrs Makeover! You can now go out into the world and land a better job, better friends, and a better love Mrs Makeover.  You can now attract that man who once paid you no attention. There he is now taking note of your transition.   You can now enter circles who once forbid your existence Mrs Makeover. You can now get back at those who rejected your existence and  throw dust to the faces of those who once taunted you with years of rejection.  You can now get a whole lot of something…..or perhaps a whole lot of nothing as dozens celebrate the new you, that better you, that not so you “you”? . Lets give it up for Mrs Makeover’s ascension of all that is hip, fresh and new.  You may have caught the stench of my sarcasm and have figured out by now that I hate make over shows. I hate them with a purple passion. But my discontent with make over shows has more to do with the nature of their executions rather than the concept all together. Execute…Like the word itself, a makeover can be rooted in different meanings and intents.

 At the very core of a makeover show is the notion of change. Change for the better is always a good thing but  whether or not the  change is for the better just depends on who you ask.  This goes for most things without saying but change in itself is not always good. Don’t get me wrong; a makeover can be uplifting. It can mark the beginning of a new chapter or put an end to an old long and drawn out chapter but all too often makeovers sacrifice the things that make so many extraordinarily beautiful and unique. As an artist who appreciates beauty in all its dynamics,  nothing is more disheartening than to see  beautiful human beings sell themselves short by  carrying the weight of someone else’s idea of what and who they should be upon their backs.

So when is a makeover necessary?

As with most things, the answer tends to lie within the “why” behind the “what”. There is a great skill in helping people to find their own style but that requires knowing the difference between a necessary and unnecessary alteration. The end result of any makeover is usually dictated by perception as it relates to beauty, status, acceptance and one's definition of appropriate.   But most importantly, it will be determined by the relationship that one has with self.  Before deciding to make a dramatic alteration to one’s own appearance, a few questions come to mind:  Who are you? Where are you trying to go? Who do you want to be?  And why?  In my opinion, the “why” is critical. We must all reach a point where we are honest with self. The perceptions that we have of ourselves are often rooted in a series of shadow beliefs and references fed to us by the power of imagery, media and the need of acceptance from a particular individual or group. Even the desire to be the beheld by a particular beholder should beg question.  Often times we make assessments to the external without acknowledging the crucial foundation that makes us whole….the part that makes us authentic. Many will trade in that part of themselves with intent to "fit".  If we take the time to observe,  we will find that often times the only makeover needed is that of the internal. I find that the greatest makeovers are the ones  truly in tune to the issue or issues at hand and  successfully make a connection between  the innerself and the external without compromising the authenticity of one's being.  Granted, it’s been said  that when you look good, you feel good. But “they” forgot to mention one crucial element: “What it looks like and what it is are two very different things". Perhaps that begs an even more critical question: What is that looks good to you and why?

I am taken aback by two makeovers that I'd seen years ago. Two couples were slapped with the fashion charge of "being stuck in a time warp".  The first couple was like a walking billboard in an extensive campaign to bring back the 80's. Their somewhat ragged mullets stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the latest crowns of the turn of the century. A tour through their home was like stepping onto the set of Miami Vice with their pink and mauve lacquered furnishings and flamingo motifs. Thin brass trim  seemed to frame everything in sight as pastel colored vases, seashells and swans speckled throughout the neon lit home.   But as a child of the 80's, I remember that there was a time when this couple would have been the hippest thing walking. So why does the perception change? As a seeker of extraordinary things, I believe that if something is truly beautiful, it remains as such despite the perception of the masses. That's another story all together but there was something about this couple that reeked of stagnation and depression far beyond the external expression of clinging to what most would deem as "outdated style". They appeared unhappy and void of any zest for life. As the show progressed, it was revealed that the couple had experienced a series of tragedies and losses at the tail end of the decade. It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure that the couple was clearly holding on to the remnants of a better time.  In this case, the chosen attire,  furnishings and the refusal to try new things were symbolic of stagnation and an unhealthy state of mind due to a series of  traumatic incidents.  They were consumed with fear, regret, grief and their old things were like spiritual vampires robbing them of precious space, time, joy and new opportunities. But even still, the makeover needed for this couple was far beyond the external. This couple needed healing that would require a makeover of the greatest kind.  

Nevertheless, two people can engage in similar acts but the reasons behind the actions are very different. 

Sometimes a makeover is highly unnecessary regardless of our perceptions. In a somewhat similar makeover show, another couple was said to have been stuck in the 1960s.   Their home was full of Beatles memorabilia, posters of the era's leaders, and colorful peace and love symbols that galloped along the walls of their homes.  Their wardrobe was a reflection of the time all in the same with their tie-dyed shirts and large peace symbols around their necks. “Get with the times!” Says their relatives who sit in the audience awaiting for “The Change”.  Most of all, the relatives wanted their long "hippie"  hair gone and  peace symbols discarded. I remember thinking to myself:  “Why?”.  Both of them seemed happy, full of life and  appeared to be as in love with each other as the day they met.  They also owned a successful restaurant and seemed adored by the many patrons who frequented their establishment. With such a successful and love filled life,  why would one ask for the couple to "change".    Why attempt to fix something that isn’t broken?

I began thinking about a queen or a king who’s crown has been in the family for centuries. Would they throw away their crowns because they were "outdated". Would one tell Queen Elizabeth that her crown is just not with the times and that she should merely toss it away?  Of course not. Her crown is part of a legacy, a culture, and history. I can also conclude that her crown is dear to her, her family and her country.    When I think of the 60s, so much comes to mind even though I was not around to witness. But I recall the stories of my elders and the countless documentaries I'd seen ranging from music to politics. It was an amazing time in history. How is this couple's peace symbols any different from the crowns of a royal family?  Each are of value and the worth of each is a matter of personal perception. This couple's symbols had become part of a great journey in their lives. So why does this couple have to do away with the elements that seem to have brought them so much joy? 

 It is often said that we shouldn’t judge a book by its cover but I believe that we must ask an even deeper question: Why do we perceive that particular cover the way we do? Why is it that we can’t appreciate the many covers?  Why do we have a need for others to be "current" in their manner of dress?  Have our minds become so programmed to how a package should look that we have lost the ability to see the beauty of being unique?  Perhaps this mentality in fashion is just a reflection of other things in our lives equally as detrimental.   It is my belief that one’s view of who needs a makeover is often rooted in the foundation of personal perception as it relates to the quest of  approval be it by that of an individual or grouping. The type of makeover given will be a direct reflection of colliding mentalities as they pertain to self and the public. The need to have others subscribe to a consensus, a way of being or believing is a common order of the day. What else could make one happy to see his loved one made over into something that she’s not. I’ve found that when I look at a makeover show, my attention is drawn more so to the individuals who insist that a makeover is needed. More often than not, I find that the individuals in need of the makover are often times the ones requesting it of others… Externally and Internally...perhaps one that will allow him or her to appreciate the dynamic differences of others. That being said…could it be that the families and friends of Mr and Mrs Makeover are often merely self projecting their own fears of being different, their own fears of  being associated with the outcasted, or their own fears of being part of the disenfranchised or the rejected. Perhaps the applause of the audience was merely a reflection of their own anxiety and disposition with themselves. 

Fashion and all things related to the external have always been a direct reflection of society’s economic,  political, social and power structure. It’s a structure that also dictates perceptions of gender, race, ethnicity, and creed. Our manner of dress and overall being is tied to a history of perceptions and I've come to find that there is often much invested interest in “the makeover”, “the change” or “the unchanged”  on a grander scale (a controversial topic that I will cover later this summer).  Nevertheless, it is to no surprise that most makeover shows are heavily geared towards the going trends of the day as they relate to the pecking order of  acceptance by a particular group of interest at the moment. The old popular click mentality ascends well beyond the halls of high school and on into adulthood.   Most will seek to “fit” into one circle or another even if it means losing part of themselves. In the eyes of many, assimilation is the key to a better life and  it could be argued that often times there is no choice but to do so when your external has the potential to stand in the way of  employment, opportunity, social standing or the ascent along the pecking order of power. Perhaps this may also explain our views of attire.

 Like the makeover of the day, the individual appears the way that we wish her to be or perhaps need her to be.  We then reward her with praise, applause, affection and even our love and friendships.   “I approve of your existence.” We subconsciously chant all the while feeding ourselves, our egos, and deep seeded isms.    From her hair to the clothing in which she wears, she is now more like us.  She is one with us and  less threatening. We are now comfortable with her existence. As she changes, Mrs Makeover ironically becomes less of a symbol of change and assimilates to the order of the day... being the same. The juxtaposition of "change" and The Makeover is quite fascinating.  Often times,  our need for others to change is just a reflection of our fear of change. Perhaps our inability to embrace differences in attire is just symbolic of our inability to embrace our differences in general. It’s been said that true peace would come from seeing our similarities.  But nothing could be further from the truth. True peace, love and understanding will only occur when we learn to embrace and love our differences. The couple who was  forced to throw away their peace and love symbols in lieu of the latest doodles, trinkets, do-dads and must haves couldn’t be any more symbolic. All hail the new reign of  Mr and Mrs Makeover and I can only imagine the new symbols that they bring.  God help us!