Reading society’s gaze.
The timeless beauty of Queen Nefertiti, whose name means
“the beautiful-one-is-come.”
© Claudine Doury/Agence VU, Paris. Christian Lacroix fashion show, 1998 autumn-winter
collection. |
A
blind writer offers a piercing look at our penchant for staring at “beautiful people”
and wonders why we so rarely agree on who
belongs to this club
When I was young I used
to think that most people were beautiful. This belief does not reflect an excessively
benevolent view of humanity, only the fact that I am blind. I assumed that the majority
of people around me must be beautiful because I could see nothing wrong with them.
But to have nothing wrong is to be merely average, ordinary, plain. Beauty is rare,
and like most rare things, desirable and precious.
Although I still don’t know what beauty looks like, I now know a lot about it; at
least I know the things people say. I gather that youth is generally assumed to be
more beautiful than age, and that regular features and symmetrical forms are prized.
And the eyes are always crucial, always the focal point of the ideal look. But it
is not enough just to have youth, symmetrical proportions and lovely eyes. Every
culture in every age admires certain traits and disparages others. Particular body
types and body parts are esteemed; the size and shape of facial features, and the
colour of skin, hair and eyes are all assigned relative values. An American beauty
today might have less appeal in Asia, and probably would have been considered too
thin a century ago. Even within the same culture, individual preferences play a role.
On numerous occasions I have heard friends debate the relative beauty of common acquaintances
and public figures, and have always been struck by how rarely everyone agrees.
Beauty is easy to recognize and hard to define. People spend a lot of time talking
about it, and a lot of money and energy trying to achieve it. And the blind are not
exempt . From childhood we, and our caretakers, are bombarded with advice about the
need for good grooming, physical fitness and tasteful attire. But for us the goal
is not merely to make the most of whatever attractions we might possess, but to make
ourselves visually appealing to others in order to dispel the expectation that the
blind are always indigent and helpless. In other words, we are encouraged not to
become more beautiful, but to look less blind. I recognize that new clothes or a
new haircut will make me feel good about myself. This will show in my face and may
counteract the discomfort my blindness rouses in others.
Inviting
attention
Still,
in a world where the vast majority of the blind are undereducated and under-employed,
I think that personal appearance should be the least of our worries. All the
advice we receive about our looks only reinforces the idea that blindness
is unsightly, best kept concealed in homes and institutions.
Once I met a blind man who always wore extremely vivid colours, school bus yellow,
safety orange, electric green. I knew this because, like many blind people, I have
some residual vision, including colour perception. This man however was totally sightless,
with no direct experience of the colours he wore. It was his mother who chose them
for him when he was a child so he would be more visible to motorists. As an adult
he continued the practice because, as he said, “if people are going to stare anyway,
I might as well make it worth their while.”
It is no secret to the blind that people stare at us. We can hear the hush that comes
over a room when we enter. We can feel heads turn, then turn away, then turn back
to stare. People believe they can stare at us with impunity because we cannot see
their fixed gaze and thus will not be offended by their scrutiny. People also stare
at the beautiful, and in a sense get away with it, because beautiful people seem
to invite the attention. Does this mean that the blind are beautiful?
Certainly, blind women in movies are usually beautiful: Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until
Dark and Uma Thurman in Jennifer Eight, to name only two examples. But their friends
seem to feel that beauty is wasted on the blind woman because she is so unconscious
of it. She cannot see her reflection in the mirror or the impact her appearance has
on others, so her beauty is somehow muted or effaced. True beauty, at least in movies,
is not merely on the surface but is enhanced and magnified by an inner awareness
of others’ admiring gaze.
In fact, I have observed that people have a way of letting me know they’re beautiful
even though I can’t see them. They project a self-assurance that shows they have
always been accustomed to attention and favourable treatment. This quality does not
feel the same as vanity or arrogance; I have met beauties who were quite modest.
They do not necessarily take credit for their beauty, but bear it with the good grace
of the recipient of a surprise gift.
Nature’s
freaks
Still,
beauty remains a mystery to me. A person can have all the prescribed characteristics
and still not be beautiful. Beauty requires something extra, an element of surprise,
even near-violence. Beauty arrests the gaze, catches the breath and stops the heart.
Beauty is an anomaly, an improbable freak of nature that so many idealized qualities
should occur in a single individual. Beautiful people complain that potential
friends and lovers are intimidated by their looks and that potential employers
doubt their intelligence.
They should spend more time with the blind because we have much in common. We too
know what it’s like to create a sensation when we walk down the street. We know how
it feels to be judged for our appearance alone. And while we cannot display the admiring
gazes the beautiful have come to expect, we also will not detect the pimples and
wrinkles they fear will spoil their beauty. And our view of them will remain constant
long after the rest of the world tells them they’re past their prime. |
