#Body As Canvas

[lostography]

Age 31. I dip my hands in a plate of purple paint and smear the paint across my bare back. A violent, violet mess across the flesh. The paint is watery and thin, cold on my hands and skin. A declaration of war. I click the self-timer on my camera. Once. And then again. And again. The body as canvas. The body as art. Or perhaps, the body as conflict. 

The body, a blank slate. These stories could belong to anyone.

_ _ _

Age 3. A snapshot in a photo album. I am wearing my mother’s white slip and it’s falling off my bare shoulders. I have on somebody else’s sunglasses, and I’m straddling a stick pony. My satisfaction with life is written clearly across my face. I am a child who would prefer to be running buck naked in the streets but playing dress up is second best to that. This body is wholly, delightfully my own. 

_ _ _

Age. 7 A new town, a new school. I’m a week late for second grade, and just trying to catch up. The popular girls wear sticky sweet lip gloss and apply roll-on glitter around their eyes. They wear tank tops and short shorts and flip-flops; it’s after all August in the desert, and the heat is thick. But in my house, we don’t wear tank tops or short shorts. Now that I’m getting older, tank tops are not modest. Instead, I wear my sister’s hand-me-down t-shirts, jean shorts to my knees, and old sneakers. I know I don’t look like the popular girls. When I don’t get an invite to M.’s eighth birthday party, the one where everyone gets to take a hot air balloon ride, I can’t help but wondering if this is why. 

_ _ _

Age 8. I am in the dressing room of JC Penney’s trying on jeans, with my mother waiting just outside the door. My age matches my size and this feels important to me. I step out of the dressing room to show off my stiff new jeans. Bootcut. I don’t remember if my mother tells me I look good or if she tells me she likes the jeans. What I do remember is she tells me I look so skinny. And I know enough to know that skinny is good. We buy the jeans. 

_ _ _

I ask other women to tell me the stories of their bodies. I want to know how and when that self-consciousness sneaks in. I want to know how they were taught to relate to their bodies and by whom. The narratives become complex quickly. They want to talk about diets, God, sexuality, and shame, but also self-worth, acceptance, and celebration. Do I write about one thread, and leave the others for another time? There is too much to untangle, each thread intricately connected to another. I attempt to write it all. The body, a complicated tapestry.

_ _ _

D. and her family are on their way to visit D.’s aunt in her new home. D. must be about twelve, maybe thirteen. They pull up into the driveway, and her aunt comes out to greet them. Her aunt is the wild one of the family, known for her blunt and crass nature. D. is barely out of the car before her aunt looks her up and down and says, Geez, you sure are getting chubby! D.’s mother pipes in, I keep telling her she needs to be more careful about what she eats! 

They take a picture in front of the new house. D. slouches behind her sisters, ashamed for the first time of her body, mortified at being photographed. She pulls her denim jacket close around herself in hopes of hiding even more. 

After that, she starts wearing that same denim jacket with every outfit, determined to keep on hiding.

_ _ _

K.’s friends love to play with makeup and clothes. K. is seven and unsure if she’s supposed to like these things, too. They introduce her to the Barbie movies, the Bratz TV series, and online dress up games. She thinks, This is what pretty girls look like.  Enormous eyes. Tiny waists. Shiny blonde hair.

They keep playing dress up through the years. She lets her friends doll her up, do her hair, put on her makeup. This is how she learns she’s not what the pretty girls look like. Eyes too small. Hair too mousy. It’s not as easy to change in real life as it was in those online dress up games. 

_ _ _

Age 12. In church, we learn what not to do with our bodies. The list is long and covers everything from what we don’t take in, to what we don’t take on. I don’t fully understand the mechanics of sex, but I know it’s on the very top of that long do-not list. Second only to murder. But murder rarely makes into church lessons. 

In a class of a dozen tween girls, our teacher passes around a white, silk rose, instructing each of us to take a turn drawing our mark on it. When the rose has made it through the circle, she holds it up for us to see how clearly tainted it is by our casual touching. Look how dirty this rose is. Who would want this rose now? 

_ _ _

I want to leave religion out of this. I want to say conservative Christianity has no role in this. But I can’t. I can’t when woman after woman tells me about what she learned in Sunday school and youth groups about her body: Cover up. Look good enough to find a husband, but not “too” good. Cover up. Don’t give boys the wrong idea. Cover up. Don’t make it hard for boys and men to control their thoughts. Be pure. Be modest. Be giving. Be angelic. Be sure to cover up. 

And we did. We kept our shorts and skirts just above the knees. We covered our shoulders. We layered tank tops under t-shirts to hide our bellies and our breasts. Nothing too tight. Nothing too sheer. 

Don’t use your body for attention. Modest is hottest. 

No special occasion is special enough to bend the rules.  

_ _ _

Age 17. A dress made of white eyelet lace. It fits my body like a glove, flaring out slightly at the waist, the hem falling just a few inches above the knee. I love the dress the way only a teenage girl can love a dress. It is that belief that this dress will change everything. I will never stop believing in the power of sartorial magic. But first, a knit bolero to cover the spaghetti straps. And bobby pins to hold the bolero in place. And another white skirt layered underneath the dress so it’s not too short. And suddenly, I don’t love the dress anymore. 

_ _ _

Another dress. This one belongs to A. She is seven, maybe eight, getting custom measured for a waltz dress. She is competing in ballroom dancing, and not for the first time. The seamstress, who has measured her before casually comments, Interesting, you are bigger on the waist than last time, but you haven’t grown taller.  

_ _ _

C. recalls being very, very young. This is what the adults praise her for: You have such big, beautiful eyes! What a pretty little girl! 

_ _ _

L.’s father-in-law always tells his granddaughter: You have such pretty eyes! I love you so much! Always, in that order. 

_ _ _

Age 31. Here is the scene: a baby shower. A spread of food. Tiny quiches. The obligatory vegetable tray with ranch dip in the middle. Lemonade. And a tempting three tier display of strawberry cookies with pink frosting, wafting their summery scent through the kitchen. Let’s play a game: count how many women comment on how they really shouldn’t eat a cookie, but just can’t resist. Bonus points if calories are mentioned. The words, like a mantra, a prayer for forgiveness that must be uttered before eating. Carrots and cauliflower, penance for their crime. Cookies, a moral dilemma. Food as sin. 

_ _ _

Age 17. The body as sin. If you dress like that, no good church boy is going to be attracted to you. If you dress like that, you’re making it hard for that good church boy to keep his thoughts clean. If you dress like that, you become walking pornography for that good church boy. If you dress like that, clearly you’re asking for it.

_ _ _

No sweets after nine!

No sugar until Christmas!

Cut back on the carbs!

These are the love notes our mothers wrote to their bodies, year after year, posted on refrigerator doors, mirrors, and inside pantries. The body, an unruly lover, always something to be kept in check.  

_ _ _

Age 24. He leaves me little love notes, tucked into the windshield wipers on my car, hidden in the books I carry to class, and left with small gifts on my front porch, and in the notes, he tells me I’m beautiful. 

He also tells me, in the dark, his hands wrapped around my waist, Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’d be so hot if you gained like twenty pounds. 

He tells me I look beautiful without any makeup on, while we sit on the edge of a canyon, waiting for the sunrise, enjoying the strawberries and cream he’s surprised me with just for the occasion.

He also tells me about how his mother gets up at the crack of dawn to get ready, so she has her hair done and a full face of makeup on by the time his father gets up. He tells me this with admiration, as though this is an expression of love: always putting forth effort to look your best and hide your worst. 

_ _ _

When A. is a child, she learns quickly that skinny girls who show lots of skin are the pretty ones. Her family doesn’t go to a church. There’s no one to shame her into covering up. She dresses how she wants. She watches her mother, a dancer, fighting to stay a certain size. This is one lesson. But she also sees how confidently her mother presents herself at any size. This is another lesson. She watches the way her father always looks at his wife like she’s the most gorgeous woman in the world. Even when her mother goes bald from fighting cancer, and gains a hundred pounds from being bedridden and in treatment, even then, her father can’t take his eyes off the woman he loves. This is the final lesson.

_ _ _

Age 25. He had wanted a good church girl, but not too good, someone who could talk doctrine and talk dirty. The sexy saint. It was exhausting trying to be that girl, but not lose myself in the process. In the end it was me who walked away from that relationship, but months later, it still stings. When I see him with his new girlfriend, I wonder if he’s found what he’s looking for, if he’s found someone who can be that impossible both. She has curves in all the right places. She probably gets up early to do her makeup, too. I doubt he tells her he'd like her to be thicker. But still, I wonder if she questions if she’s enough.  

_ _ _

Age 31. At the baby shower, X. has brought her youngest daughter, who is just shy of two-years-old. Her daughter plays with puzzles on the floor. X. discusses an upcoming tropical vacation. In preparation for the trip, she’s trying to be careful with what she eats. A body like hers isn't readymade for a tropical vacation and must be edited into a slimmer version. Food, a minefield to be tiptoed through, there solely to thwart her efforts. The other women chime in. There is nothing women bond over more than the shaming of their own bodies. X’s daughter interrupts, tugging at her mother’s shirt; she can’t fit the puzzle pieces together on her own. 

_ _ _ 

Baby R. has recently turned one years old. In the video her mother shares with me, she has just discovered her tummy and her fabulous, herniated belly button. She keeps pushing her belly button in, delighted by the way it pops back out each time. She pulls her shirt down and then quickly pulls it back up, pleased to find the belly button where she last left it. She lets both hands investigate her tummy, this new, uncharted territory. So much wonderful body to explore. 

_ _ _

Age 31 . There is purple fingerpaint all over my body, and on the carpet, and on my camera, proof of a messy exploration. Paint as a declaration of war? No. I don’t want to be at war with my body any longer. I am writing an agreement to cease and desist in purple fingerpaint across my flesh. It reads something like a love note. 

_ _ _

As K. nears the end of high school, after years of Sunday school lessons teaching her to be sweet and angelic, she decides to jump from the pedestal that religion has built for her. K. doesn’t want to feel like an angel. She wants to feel like a rockstar. She wants heavy eyeliner and dark eyeshadow. She wants leather jackets. Her rebellion is small, but it is her own. Her body is her own. 

_ _ _

Age 15. We play a game called Body, Body, Body. It is an elaborate game of hide-and-seek, each player adopting a role or a façade that must be adhered to for the duration of the game. It is a search in the dark for a hidden body. And when the body is found, the proclamation is made, Body, body, body! As though to say, look, look what I’ve found, hiding here in the dark all along. 

_ _ _

Age 31. Body, body, body, where is the body? I am still in the dark, searching for something hidden. I am reading about the body, talking about it, listening to podcasts about it. I am writing poetry and essays and fiction about it. I am studying photographs of the body and taking my own. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I am a war general studying the enemy to learn its tactics. No, I am lover, studying the beloved to learn its habits. No, I am a soul, studying the body to remember its mysteries. 

_ _ _

Age 26. Dracula, the ballet. The performance is incredible: everything from the set-design to the costuming, crimson and black and white, tension and contrast meet fluidity and beauty. But most of all, the dancing itself, the way Mina’s body responds to Dracula, the wordless conversation that flows between the two of them, each movement a brushstroke. The seductive surrender of giving your whole body so freely to a moment. 

_ _ _

C. is relearning the art of intuitive movement. In her thirties, and after giving birth to five children, her body and its movements have become strange to her. She puts on music and lets her body respond to the rhythm and move as it will. Even alone in this practice, a tiny sliver of self-consciousness sneaks in. But still, she relishes in the moment, that connection of intuition and movement, the self fully inhabiting the body. 

_ _ _

Age 26. A strange and lovely little incident. About three in the morning, I wake up with a stuffy nose. As I get out of bed to grab a tissue, I am struck by what a marvel the human body is, that within a matter of seconds I can go from waking to sleeping, from lying down to walking, with hardly a pause to stand in between and no thought to any of it. I feel within me a sense of wonder at the agility of motion, the perfection of muscle movement, grateful for a body such as this. This body I feel so constantly at war with will still do these gentle and good things for me.

_ _ _

Age 31. What I’ve forgotten from my faith is this: The body is also a temple. I am clearing away the cobwebs and the dust from years of ignoring it, from hiding it away. I am trying to invite God back in. I am apologizing for the years of shame and hate I’ve felt for this body and raging against everything that taught me to feel like that. He keeps reassuring me, It’s okay. It was never meant to be like this. You are okay. You are enough. And I feel held in the embrace of this newfound love. 

_ _ _

Age 25. We are perched on a cliff overlooking a vista of crimson and cream-colored cliffs, white sands, and wide expanses of desert. We’ve climbed 260 feet of rock face for this view. My first multi-pitch climbing route, and also my first route to involve trad climbing. My body did this hard and wonderful thing to get me here. I think of the second pitch, and the sandstone rock face I climbed, my climbing partner the unseen voice above me, encouraging me forward. The connection of body with earth, skin communicating with rock, legs and arms shaking, but still, moving forward, moving upward.

_ _ _

In her twenties, D. takes a fitness class. As they move their bodies, they shout collective affirmations, I am strong! I can do hard things! I am grateful to my body! The affirmations feel false at first. She feels like she is lying to herself. But slowly, she begins to believe them. She is strong. She can do hard things. She is grateful for her body. 

_ _ _

A. is moving across the country, packing up belongings from homes in two states as she goes, the whole of it in a whirlwind week. Her body is exhausted, and yet, here is she after already having packed up one house and driven hundreds of miles, packing up another house, moving heavy boxes and furniture. Her late mother’s fine China. The China cabinet itself. These things are important to her. This move is important to her. All day, she is thanking her body, asking her body to keep on going. And it does. When she finally lies down that night, she feels so grateful to her body, and thrilled at what it has accomplished. 

_ _ _

Age 31. Yoga class. The studio is in a community rec center. Pool tables are situated right next to the studio, and beyond that, table tennis and air hockey. During downward facing dog, you can hear the rhythmic ping of play, and the shouts over missed shots. The woman next to me is here in sweats, and her teenage daughter beside her in jean shorts. The yoga teacher plays Alessia Cara over the loudspeaker while we practice. This is not a retreat. Not an ashram. And yet, this space is holy. Here, my spirit finds my body. Oh, there you are. I’ve missed you. Here, for a brief, messy, and beautiful moment, my body stays balanced in crow pose. I am my body. The body is me. 

_ _ _

Age 6. Four little girls, sprawled on a rug, each resting their head on the belly of another, creating a pinwheel of bodies. This is the game: start laughing, fake, real, it doesn’t matter, just let laughter fill you from the belly up. And soon, whatever the laughter began as it becomes something real. The strange delight of feeling the laugh of another person and the way it only births more and more laughter. We can’t stop laughing. The pinwheel unravels and we are a heap of holy, happy bodies, beaming bright with laughter. 

- Excerpt from “Body, Body, Body,” Valerie Owens

PC: Valerie Owens

[theinsaneum]

[dingusdemeanour]

[kucho04]

Rakuzan High

[sneez]

conrad veidt would make a great tragedian i think

[seamsterslocal]

summer binder picture tutorial

this is the third binder ive made for myself recently and the first one i’m writing up. it’s designed to do a few things: 1) allow me to put it on by myself without dislocating my shoulders 2) allow me to breathe well enough to partake in normal activity 3) be cool enough to wear throughout a muggy 90-100F summer 4) not constrict my ribs in a way that aggravates my lack of connective tissue and causes intense pain.

this has become necessary even though i had top surgery many years ago, because when i had it i was extremely skinny and since then i’ve increased in size by about 50%. this has been really fucking good for my health in every single way* except that when my chest is squishy or moves at all it’s So Goddamn Triggering for me. but also since ive had top surgery ive developed and/or been made away of a plethora of chronic conditions that make every single commercially available binding option medically impossible. unbound, my chest is pretty much what you’d expect for a chubby cis guy but venturing out into the world in just a tshirt no longer works for me

*anyone who badmouths weight gain or fat bodies in the notes WILL be blocked

under the cut are a bunch of process pictures and explanations of what they all mean:

first i’ll give you a look at the pieces and measurements:

most of the seams are sewn in this picture and one half is turned inside out, allowing you to see both the finished dimensions (right) and the placement of the fusible horsehair canvas that gives this lil scrap of linen any structure at all (left)

to get your chest measurement, you’re gonna have to do some math:

first measure above and below what you want to bind. average these numbers. mine are something like 32 and 34, which average to 33. subtract a few inches--this is to allow the air movement between the laces at center front and back, critical in the summertime. i deleted 3 inches bc i like that number but you can go bigger if you want. the more inches you subtract here, the more youll be able to ratchet all your chest material down later, but at the same time you need to leave enough fabric for a sturdy garment. let’s say a range of 2-6 inches/5-15cm. by taking your measurements this way, you’re essentially measuring the chest you would like to have. that + the horsehair canvas work together to compress any squishy tissue/force anything that doesnt compress up and to the outside (basically into the armpit/lower shoulder--the chest might stick out but it will give a very puffed chest captain america pectoral silhouette)

you can also see how ive clipped my curves and pre-drilled my lacing holes. i used the marlin spike on my knife to open up the holes on the interfacing side, mainly as a way of marking them. this worked well bc the interfacing’s glue kept the linen from raveling

this is the same stage but looking at the non-interfaced grey linen/cotton blend (the black is some 100% linen from my cabbage stash). you can see ive broken the solar-plexus-to-back measurement up into a bunch of pieces to save on fabric but that’s not necessary. my original pattern was just two pieces (front and back) and chopping the straps into thirds on both sides was aesthetic

in the following picture you can really see how this is really just overgrown regency stays:

i thought about doing side lacing but didn’t think that would be comfortable for me. on the front, the side seam allowance was pressed inwards before turning to create a finished looking slot. on the back the side seam is left unfinished with an extra wide seam allowance, and is inserted into that slot.

here’s a closeup on it pinned in place (you can adjust the angle of the side seam and the fit during this pinning stage):

that side seam was just topstitched in place once i had the fit how i liked it, and the armhole was reinforced with more topstitching

alright, time for eyelets: first, you can see how well the marking worked:

next, two rows of basted eyelets (left), one row of eyelets sewn with a doubled and waxed cotton thread (center right), and one row of eyelets opened and stainless steel rings placed (right).

next time i’m going to mark the eyelets same as i did above, but do this step differently--i’ll mark and baste the steel rings in place BEFORE widening the eyelets. this is bc i had a lot of problems keeping the eyelets on center

eyelets half done on this one! on the left are eyelets sewn with doubled and waxed cotton thread and on the right eyelets sewn with quadrupled and waxed thread. the center is basting again. i was able to force the holes back in line while sewing the eyelets but it was kinda annoying. adding a second picture that doesnt have great focus but hopefully shows how that process worked and shows the spike clearly

i ended up using this white cotton thread because it’s stronger than my black cotton thread (which the rest of it is sewn with). [eta: after this was first posted, i pressed the whole thing heavily, which effectively de-waxed the thread, and i dyed the whole thing a medium charcoal grey, the thread blends in perfectly on the lighter side and isn’t such a sore thumb on the darker side]

bonus: the piecing layout for that little piece of strap. the whole light gray half of the binder was made from 1/2 of one of the legs i cut off some linen suit pants to make slutty camping shorts last year and i really really didn’t want to break into any of the other three halves for this garment--i have Plans for it

overall the fit of this is incredible. it DOESNT hurt my ribs which every zip-up garment ive been able to find (and it is difficult) does due to really thick elastic at the base. it doesnt aggravate my sensory issues with the synthetic fibers that every commercial option is made of. i can walk up a hill or stairs, or go to pt, without getting too out of breath. i can eat with it tight, or loosen the front easily and without taking it off to make eating easier and less nausea-inducing. it is reversible!

best of all the lacing at the back gives the garment enough movement for me to get it on without dislocating, and the interfacing and steel rings give it structure once it’s on. the shaping comes only from fusible horsehair linen canvas and stainless steel rings like youd use for chainmail, there’s no boning at all, which makes it very quick to sew (except the eyelets, but metal grommets would be sturdy and quick provided theyre of good quality)

there’s a small amount of gaping on the outside of the shoulder strap, which i plan on fixing with a tiny tiny dart in the armpit, i want to add pockets to tuck the laces into, and i need a better lace for the back, but it’s completely wearable in time for the 90 weather next week which is all i wanted. i’ll do a reblog when it’s perfectly finished with an update on the fit but for now it is done enough 

the little ridge where it doesnt lay flat against the shoulder is most visible with just a single t shirt over it. with a flannel or a sweater, it disappears, and by itself, it’s hidden in movement

eta: after dyeing this, i relaced it a bit looser in the back and that gape mainly disappeared. ive decided to leave it in instead of smoothing it with a dart because the loose fabric gives space for my chest to expand when breathing and shapes my silhouette in a way that emphasizes my shoulders

[grandkhan221b]

HOTD season 2 coming up got me re-reading ASOIAF again wooops

[otiksimr]

Oh it feels so weird to post this guy but.. here

The cosmic horror

Ah yes, dog

[whelle]

they’re so bestfriends

[firbolgfriend]

Scrapped stylized discord

[rnmyn]

OCTOBER 31st | Wei Wuxian

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support me on ko-fi ☆

[mommyrubyrose]

I need a hand with these

[feintenstein]

slackers on a snow day...

Monocolor under tha cut:

[qjqzxjq]

Glow of Gold, Gleam of Pearl William McGregor Paxton (1906)

[pineappical]

trent this time with the colorful clothing 😋

[simplyfurnituredirect]

🌟