The Body As Canvas

        One toy that re-appears each generation is some sort of humanoid figure, less than a foot tall, completely made of white resin, that allows you to paint on it. Sometimes the paints come with it, sometimes you have to buy the paint separately. Curiously, the closer it looks like a human being, the more clothing it usually has on.
        I remember seeing these as a kid and getting incredibly excited. In fact, when I see them today, in whatever modern form they have evolved into, I get...incredibly excited. Because even as a child, the idea of having a blank slate upon which to create myself filled me with a light that made me glow from the inside out.
        Before I knew what it meant to not like myself, I didn’t like myself. I always remember wanting to be somebody else. I had a very active fantasy life where I was always pretending that I was some other thin, cool, popular, attractive, happy kid, instead of the fat, melancholy, socially awkward boy that I was.
        These little all white figures were tabulae rasae that I could paint as brightly and as beautifully and as outrageously as I wanted. It was much different than painting on a piece of paper. The little statue that looked like a human body was far more symbolically evocative of who and what I could become. It was like I was painting on myself. It was as though I was re-creating myself whenever I painted one of them. I obviously wasn’t mature enough to be aware of that then, but I see that connection clearly now.
        Even now, just thinking about a three dimensional human form upon which to paint and adorn however I choose fills me with a child like joy and excitement that only the possibility of full self expression can conjure. As a child, my opportunities for full self expression were extremely limited. And when the opportunities arose,there was always a ceiling or a limit on just how expressive I could be. Even if I was just painting a toy.
        Not now. As an adult, whatever limits I place on my own self expressiveness are, ultimately, of my own design and choosing.
        What I’ve come to understand is that, like that little white statue, I see my body as a canvas upon which to paint whatever I choose. But, unlike the statue, it’s not a static canvas. It’s a vibrant, dynamic canvas that I can sculpt into the shape I want. I have a certain amount of control over the shape of this canvas, and through exercise and nutrition and discipline and knowledge and desire and hard work, I can make it into something I like the looks of. Something I like the feel of. I don’t have to fantasize about being somebody else. I can become the man I want to be. “Sculpting” and “Painting” this canvas called my body is one piece of that self-actualization.
        The clothing and the jewelry and the hair color and whatever else I adorn to present to the outside world are like the colors and designs I paint on the little white resin statue. I have become that magical canvas upon which to paint. And I don’t want to limit my colors or my designs. I want to use the colors and the styles and the designs that I like. I want to combine them all to create a unique presentation. I want my physical form to look as unique on the outside as I am on the inside.
        It doesn’t make any sense not to use whatever colors or styles or designs or accoutrements excite me to create this. Certainly not because somebody else is telling me what’s acceptable or normal. As a child, it was parents or teachers or other kids setting the rules on self expression. Now it’s societal norms.
        No thanx. Been there. Done that. It’s not a whole lotta fun. I’m going to use whatever colors I like. I’m going to go with whatever designs and styles move me. Why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t you?
        This reminds me of a conversation I had with my neighbor’s mother about the color of my house. When I first painted it, I saw her sitting alone on her lawn and went over to say hello. I hadn’t seen her since the previous summer. After a few minutes she said to me “You know, I really don’t like the color of your house. Purple?”. She’s an outspoken, old school Italian woman. Her candor and directness I find refreshing, very unlike her female offspring, who just stopped talking to me one day after I painted the house. Anyway, without skipping a beat, I replied to her “Well you know Mary, I don’t like the color of your house either. It bores the hell out of me.”
        We both laughed. Ah, truth. Nothing like it.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a massive tabula rasa of Wrongs) Reserved.

The (Sparkly) Chart Room

        The other night, I was at a locally famous restaurant and watering hole called The Chart Room. The Chart Room is one of those places that’s been here as long as people have been vacationing on lower Cape Cod. It’s a physical establishment that has magically transcended the physical and woven itself into the ethereal fabric of the area, the very same way the water and the sunsets have. The Chart Room, and everything that’s ever happened there, is a vibrant part of the Cape Cod collective unconscious.
        It overlooks a beautiful cove that houses Kingman’s Marina. There are boats of all shapes and sizes everywhere. The boating crowd loves the place, as does just about everybody else.
        I don’t have a boat. I have a jet ski. My shorts aren’t pleated, or even khaki. They’re more the surfer type. My shirts don’t have a collar, or usually even a neckline. And if they do, they are of colors and styles that would never appear in a Ralph Lauren, Polo, or Nautica catalog. Very few of the men who frequent The Chart Room adorn any sort of jewelry, save for a wedding band, while I practically rattle when I walk.
        Superficially, I don’t fit in here. I dress differently. My quasi mohawk haircut is unlike anybody else’s. My sense of style is about as far away from these people as can be. But beneath all that, there is a commonality that for me at least supersedes such differences. When you get further down to it, these people are here for the evening to socialize, to connect to other people, and to enjoy life. And so am I. It is through that unspoken commonality that our sensibilities meet and mesh.
        During the course of the evening, an attractive woman in her early fifties approached me and said “I have to ask you; What is up with that belt?”. She’s referring to a sparkly belt that often adorns my waistline, a belt that I have written about in this very blog. Her query was genuine and curious, not at all confrontational, and I’m sure that added to my immediate sense of ease.
        “Are you familiar with Michelangelo’s sculpture of David?”, I asked her. She said “Yes. In fact, I’ve seen it. It’s fabulous.” I continued “Do you recall the artist’s response when he was asked how he was able to sculpt such a thing from a hunk of shapeless marble?”. “No. I don’t.” she said. “What Michelangelo said”, I replied, “was that David was already in the marble. All he had to do was take away what didn’t belong so that David could be revealed.” There was a slight pause. She understood the comment, but didn’t understand what the hell it had to do with the belt I was wearing. I let this fester for just a moment and added “Well, this belt was already inside of me. All I had to do was strip away from me whatever didn’t belong, and there it was.” She looked at me, still somewhat perplexed. She obviously wasn’t expecting a philosophical answer to her question about my fashion choice.
        I continued “I love bright colors, flashy clothing, sparkly things. I’m drawn to them like a moth is to a flame. That preference is inside of me. I just follow it. And it leads me to find and wear stuff like this.” After a moment or two, as my words sank in, she got it. And then she smiled at me. I could see in her eyes that she not only understood what I was saying, she understood ME. She was asking about something on my outside, and I gave her something from my insides, and she heard it. I took this simple opportunity to share this about myself because she asked a question. Her curiosity prompted my openness and we were able to connect through a wonderful little exchange.
        In those moments, it didn’t matter what we looked like, or how we dressed. All that mattered was that we got each other. We connected. Which is why I go there. Which is why she goes there. Which is why so many of us go there. Or anywhere, for that matter.


©2009 Clint Piatelli. All Rights (and a collective unconscious of Wrongs) Reserved.