Roberta, who asks us to call her Bobby, is fifty-plus, with thick curls that bounce into her eyes. She is thin-lipped, her eyes a cornflower blue. She could be beautiful if not for the gravity of heavy rage and misery that sags her features and dulls her expression. She looks like she expects the worst and is disappointed with even that.
Kiva, twenty-eight, is a tiny, wiry princess. “I have been on a pilgrimage around the earth for the past five years,” she says. “Now it’s time for me to address my issues. This workshop was a gift to me from a friend.”
Everything about Kiva is tiny and perfectly neat, apart from the explosion of long, thick dreadlocks that spring from her small round head. Curved forehead, small upturned nose, big green eyes. She seems intense though, jumpy.
Next is Roxanne, who is from a small village near Québec she says. Large bodied, her generous cleavage fills her low-cut purple shirt that hangs over a long, matching purple skirt. She wears a tiny crystal dot in the centre of her forehead, has a heart-shaped face with large dark eyes, thick long eyelashes, a cupid’s bow mouth, high cheekbones. She has a smattering of tiny freckles across her nose and she radiates loveliness, almost a purity.
I have no idea what the others see when they look at me.
I have an image of what my body looks like and I know I don’t like it one bit. But I feel okay because no one can see it – I am wearing my super-wide gray pants with a long linen top that reaches mid-thigh. No one can see a thing.
“Let us begin,” Ondine says, and I take a deep breath.
Here we go.
Day one, hell
ONDINE LIES DOWN, ARMS AND legs spread wide. “Let us arrange our bodies in an expression of how we feel. I am here,” she says and she wriggles her toes.
The others do yoga poses of varying kinds. Kiva is a flower and she unfolds in all sorts of balletic ways. The last to go, I sit down and clutch my knees to my chest.
“Groan,” I say, “groan.” I can’t think of anything else.
Ondine looks at each of us thoughtfully and then standing up announces, “Okay so, now we are going to do collage.”
Good, I love collage. We sit, cross-legged, surrounded by glue sticks, scissors, magazines, large empty pieces of whiteboard.
“This collage must be about how the media sees you,” Ondine says. “What pressures does the media put on you? What are the expectations, the demands, the messages?”
Alone on my island in the middle of the floor, with crayons and magazines, I am totally happy. I could do this for two days solid.
But two hours later, it is time for electric shock therapy.
“So now, put your collages away, on top of the cupboard here, so they are out of sight.”
Kiva has difficulty letting go of hers. She keeps trying to elicit comments from Ondine who refuses to even look. “Later,” she says, smiling. “Now we are going to get in touch with our bodies and dance.”
“Oh, wonderful, I love dancing,” Kiva explains. “I have been a dancer for years.”
Oh, great. Of course she’s a dancer. I hate dancing. I am hopeless. I think back to Janet’s wedding and Mathew and me whirling about, song after song. But that was us, not me. I cannot dance alone.
“We will start with very small movements, and only the areas I refer us to. Start with your neck….”
I launch into yoga stretches that are beyond me. We finally get to exploring our feet, and start walking slowly back and forth, feeling the bones in our toes.
Then Ondine drops a huge pile of scarves in the middle of the room.
“We will now dance,” she announces, “with scarves.”
Oh, dear God, no. I am frozen with terror.
But my bravery knows no bounds, and I am driven by my desperation to be cured. I select a massive cotton-fringed shawl in green, yellow, and orange.
Ondine fires up the New Age holistic music and I begin by draping the scarf over my head like an awning. I imagine I am in Greece, walking along a boardwalk with the wind blowing in my hair. I don’t dance, I just walk, cautiously.
Not too bad. Except that it smells musty under the scarf. I must make a note, I think, to tell Ondine to wash the scarves.
I trail the scarf down my arms, keep my face hidden, and feel the fringe tickle my fingertips. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.
I begin to sway ever so slightly. Kiva, Amelia and Roxanne cavort across the room with their scarves flying in loops and whirls. They are laughing and gyrating, all of them obviously experienced dancers.
Bobby is doing stiff, stilted little hops, like a bullfighter.
On impulse, I cover my entire head. I wrap the scarf around my face and tighten it around my neck. Even better. Now I am warm and hidden. I can see the dancing shapes around me, through the lime green fabric. My arms are free and just my head is covered. I like it. At one point I wonder if the group thinks I am odd but I can’t really see them, so the theory is they can’t really see me either.
I sway a little, and the music changes from flutes and waves crashing on a beach to a belly dancer’s soundtrack. I have absolutely no idea what to do with my body now and I am getting tired. I haven’t done this much exercise in a long time.
I decide to peek out from under my scarf.
I see the three dancers are still whirling around the room, scarves blowing.
Bobby has tied her scarf tightly around her ankles and is hobbling back and forth, shackled.
Shocked, I retreat under my wrapping.
“Now, dance with each other,” Ondine calls out.
Oh, God, the hell increases. What on earth does she mean? Isn’t that what we are already doing?
Ankle-shackled Bobby immediately unties her feet, dances over to me, and flings her scarf over my head, catching my neck awkwardly. She dances back-to-back with me, her buttocks bouncing against mine, and I, to be polite, sway with her, both of us hopelessly out of rhythm. I wonder how I can extricate myself without hurting her feelings. She makes me nervous, she is too close to the edge of violence or despair.
So I throw my scarf over her head and cover up her vision. I don’t think she likes that much because pretty soon afterwards, she ducks out and dances off.
Excellent.
I trade my scarf in for one of sea-foam silk, and then again for a huge piece of linen in yellow and red and I twirl it around, like a scarf dancer you might see at the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.
Just when I am close to exhaustion and think I’ll have to lie down on the floor and admit defeat, Ondine brings us to a close.
Thank heavens.
“We are now going to make human sculptures,” she says, and comes over to use me as a model.
I am drenched with sweat and now she is going to touch me. Great.
She arranges my arms forward, as though I am about to dive into a vast ocean, my gaze forward, chin up.
“Joining the group,” she calls it.
I arrange her in return; her head turned up to the sun, arms outstretched, chest thrust forward.
“Diving off a cliff,” I say.
The group claps.
Then we break for lunch.
I run. On the way in, I had seen the making of a street fair and I want to reward myself for all my hard work. I buy a button with the McDonald’s logo that reads “McVomit.” Then I buy a corn on the cob for three dollars. No butter, I say to the vendor who asks me three times and I eat it while I walk back to the group.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Bobby, who had been shackled, asks as soon as I get back. She has a crush on me, I can tell. “I mean, you are thin but you disappeared more quickly than one could imagine.”
Somehow I find her comment offensive even though I should have been happy; after all, she had called me “thin.”
“Give me your email address.” She demands in a way I can’t say no to.
We reconvene and do more poses to show how we are feeling. I think we are all mostly tired. Bobby lies down like a splayed sta
rfish, I mime sleep, and even Ondine droops like a tall weary rag doll.
“So now we are going to work in clay,” Ondine says. I could hug her. I hope there is no more dancing, ever. “Create the image of what you would like to be, how you would like to be. The ideal you.”
Okay. No problem.
Various separate pieces of my ideal self emerge; a sloping-shouldered, small-breasted torso in the shape of a heart, a torso that narrows at the waist to the bottom-most point of the heart, and no hips but a curved-out abstract slender base. I manipulate the clay into a rather horse-faced, decapitated head with a fabulous flower-covered hat. I spend a long time on the flowers, pressing tiny petals around a small central ball. I mold a long, slender outstretched arm and a single, very large foot, and arrange them all in a field of intricate, petalled roses.
Clay is tricky stuff and it isn’t easy, doing my careful tiny things. It all dries so quickly and I have to keep licking the petals to get the surfaces all nice and smooth.
An hour later, we are done.
“And now, in plasticine, create the you that you think the world perceives, how you think others see you.”
That is easier than I think it will be; I am a sausage figure of fat rounded parts. I have long, stringy yellow hair, a solid pink torso, bulging yellow thighs, large round knees, thick orange calves and small pink feet.
“Now,” Ondine says, after we all gather and introduce our sculptures, “create a dialogue between the two.”
Oh, no, I have nothing to say. But I am wrong; the conversation pours out. I write as fast as I can, worried I will run out of time but I finish the message, just.
Then we gather in a circle with our sculptures and scripts.
“Now,” Ondine explains, “with your sculptures in front you, pick two people who will read your dialogue.”
This causes consternation among the others in the group who all vote to read their own dialogues. Except for Bobby who wants me to read hers with her.
When it comes to my turn, I decide to have Amelia and Kiva read my dialogue. I figure if Ondine thinks that this is the way to go, to have others read your stuff, then by golly, I’ll do it, since I am here to be cured. I will follow the rules precisely.
Amelia takes RM’s script, that is, the real me, the perceived me, the plasticine sausage girl, while Kiva takes IM, the ideal me, the clay pieces torso-heart. They both initially want to be RM, and that made makes me feel oddly encouraged.
The two me’s get together
AMELIA, REAL ME, ASKS KIVA, IDEAL ME, a question: Why are you in parts?
Kiva, Ideal Me, answers: Because I feel better this way, more pure.
Real Me: Ridiculous. You are a body, you can’t exist in pieces, you are all part of the same thing, you are ONE body.
Ideal Me: Why are you so angry? I can be whatever I like. I’m “ideal” remember? Not real, like you. You may have no choice in the matter but I do and I choose to keep the pieces I like, and live among the roses.
RM: I notice you don’t have any legs.
IM: Oh, you’re so clever huh? So what? You think I need those heavy sticks of yours to get where I need to go? I’m ideal. I don’t need your thick, stupid instruments of torture.
RM: My legs are perfectly fine, thank you very much, and I am very nicely in proportion. Besides, I like walking. I love the feeling of my lovely strong legs. Look at me. Even now, I love this feeling of having my legs splayed out in front of me. I feel like a kid, on a summer’s day, in a park alongside a beach, eating an ice cream.
IM: With legs like that I presume you eat a lot of ice creams. Perhaps you should cut down on them. That’d be my suggestion.
RM: I’m not listening to you, you have no legs. And you’re all grey, while I am beautifully coloured.
IM: Yes, you look like a child’s toy. You lack sophistication, elegance. You are a fat, stumpy thing.
I feel terrible, about tiny Kiva saying that to big Amelia. I want to stop them and apologize. I cover my face with my hands and groan.
RM: Oh, you’re funny. My gosh, I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but honey, you’ve got issues. I mean, just look at you, headless among the dandelions.
IM: I told you, they are roses. Just goes to show how much you know.
RM: What’s with that big foot?
IM: It’s my creative footprint that I am leaving behind when I die.
RM: I see. Well, do you have any questions for me?
IM: Yes. Why is your heart stuck on your arm like that?
RM: It’s on my sleeve dummy. I wear my heart on my sleeve, as the saying goes.
IM: Again, my dear, you are so gauche. Emotions are so passé.
RM: Is that why you don’t even have a heart?
IM: Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. You see, you think you know everything but you don’t, rubber girl. My entire upper body is a heart. I am all heart, baby.
RM: And you’re all hat too. You are a headless, hatted wonder with no legs.
IM: I’m not getting into the leg discussion again. So, listen you, Miss Solid. Let’s say we were to hang together, can you think of anything we’d have in common?
RM: You’re the creative one, you tell me.
IM: Fine then, forget it, forget I asked.
RM: Jeez Louise, you’re huffy. Take a chill pill. There’s a whole ton of stuff we could do.
IM: Such as?
RM: Take a walk along a beach. We could listen to kids laugh, watch dogs play, pick up seashells. We could feel the hot sun on our skin. Hey, you could even get a tan.
IM: I can’t walk along a beach. I don’t have any legs.
RM: I could carry you. I am strong and solid, remember?
IM: Why are you so goddamned cheerful?
RM: Because I am happy.
IM: Yes, you are fat and happy.
I nearly die when Kiva says that to Amelia. I hate myself entirely. It is one thing to say it to myself, another entirely to call another names. It is unforgivable of me.
RM: says reproachfully: Oh, don’t be like that. Why are you so hurt, so angry? Is it because you are all broken up in pieces and you’re not real?
IM: Of course it is. How would you feel if you were all grey and dismembered?
RM: You designed yourself honey, I can’t help it if I’m cuter than you. But you’re not much of a lateral thinker, are you? You could put yourself together.
IM: says sadly: No, I can’t. I have to be this way.
RM: Have to? Says who?
IM: Says me. Says the world, I dunno. It just is what it is.
RM: So you’re admitting defeat?
IM: I am acknowledging reality.
RM: You are beginning to bore me. Are you always so self-obsessed?
IM: Yes, actually, and I find myself infinitely interesting.
RM: Not so the rest of us, honey. Listen, I’d love to stay and admire your fragile beauty and your ironclad tenacity but I gotta go. Ciao, bella.
It is hard for me to face the group. I am sure they hate me. Because of me, a tiny girl has called a fat girl fat. I have been so terribly vicious. I am sure they’ll look at me and boot me out, with one, unified kick.
But they don’t.
I feel optimistic
YOU HAVE A GOOD SENSE of humour, the group tells me. Your dialogue is very funny. But remember, they say, humour hides pain.
“Your normal girl isn’t so normal,” Bobby reproaches me. “I mean, her heart on her arm like that is very strange, don’t you think?”
I find her observation consoling.
“You’re so right,” I say, “which means the ideal me isn’t the only creative one. Real me is too.”
“How perfect is your detail, how smooth all the surfaces, even the tiny, tiny parts,” Ondine points out. “All the other sculptures are rough but yours are like polished stone, look at your tiny, perfect roses.” I am the last one to go in the group.
“You control everything to the tiniest degree,” she observes. “You organize it all
. You do the same with food I am sure.”
Yes this is true, I think, I do. And I like that about myself. I have control.
“So, why no legs?” Amelia enquires.
“I’ve been told all my life,” I explain, “by so many different people, that I nearly got it right, I nearly got the right body, except for the legs. As though it’s my fault, and I ordered the wrong parts, sorry, my mistake. So I don’t want these legs,” I point at my legs, “because they are the wrong ones.”
The others laugh nervously; they don’t seem to know what to make of that.
Roxanne has sculpted a half-bird, half-frog figure as her ideal self, with thought-bubbles that she can take off or put back. Her real self is a wide, flat doll, with undistinguished features, stuck to a page of orange paper.
Amelia’s ideal clay self is disturbing; a grey-white, heart-shaped skeletal face trapped in a rib-like cage. Her real self is a yellow-and-black monstrous claw that reaches out of a clumsy jellyfish body with horns on its head.
Bobby has two grey clay ideals. The first one is a large, wide-hipped woman who lies on her side and reaches up her hand, as though pleading, asking for help. The other is a stout dominating masculine figure that looms over the prone woman. Bobby’s real self is a wide-hipped skeleton, the plasticine scratched in wisps onto a piece of paper, her real self is hardly there.
Kiva’s ideal self is lying on her back, her neck broken, twisted. She has gone into careful detail: the wide hip area, the one breast bigger than the other, the one side of the body twisted as though injured, the feet turned in vulnerable repose. The figure is heavy, flat, lifeless. The carefully carved face is the only area of the body that has a smooth, polished surface. The nose and lips are perfect. And, every hair is twisted to accurately mirror Kiva’s real-life dreadlocks.
Her real self is sitting in the lotus position, hands in prayer. The figure seems happier, at peace. Every thing about the sculpture screams life, energy, beauty, and colour; it is the antithesis of her ideal self.
I am a little confused by their statues. The ideals of most of them don’t seem ideal, at least not to me.
The Hungry Mirror Page 33
