Why do you wear makeup? Blue Jay explores her relationship with appearance as she transitions between her countryside home and work in the city.
I saw a photograph of myself yesterday. We were in rehearsal and one of my colleagues took some clandestine pics. We’ve all experienced this kind of delightful surprise. In the image I stood in profile, scowling in concentration, my less-than-clean hair pulled back in a salt and pepper ponytail, my chin jutting forward, shoulders hunched and topping off the elegance, my ass disappearing in a pair of drooping trousers. The picture would have made sense if BEFORE had been stamped over the top.
There are others in the rehearsal room with me who haven’t given many fucks about what they look like each day. But there is also one colleague, we’ll call her Laura, who is in a world apart. She is 53 and French. Each day she wears a flick of liquid eyeliner, red lipstick, and a thin silk scarf around her neck. Her hair is cropped close and dyed a bright white. Befitting her role, as a scenographer and designer of cutting-edge dance and theatre, she has strong aesthetic opinions and an inimitable personal style.
I study her. There is something formidable about her sharp uniform, something classically French. Her lipstick is probably Chanel. So, what’s my lineage? My mother, who doesn’t have the excuse of being French, also adheres to the daily regimen of mascara and lipstick. She hasn’t shaved and peroxided her hair, but she also hasn’t let it go grey. Neither did my grandmother, until she was 90 years old. The colours my grandmother wore, on her nails, lips, shoulders and toes, were part of what kept her youthful for so long – at least, they helped keep the spirit of youth floating in front of peoples’ eyes.
In the city, it feels right to do it, to give attention to this visual presence. As I write, I am sitting in a fashionable café in Brussels, looking out of a big window, and I am happy that my hair is washed and I’ve made an effort to prepare my face for the people whose eyes I meet on the street. This makeup game is inherently social.
In the next few months, after our show premieres and I return to the countryside, I will be mostly at home – and then who sees my face? Who am I putting on lipstick for then? My son, the other parents at the school pick up, colleagues on Zoom, the workers at the supermarket, my husband, the trees in the wood? I mean, I’m not going to wander the footpaths in a gown and slippers, but let’s be realistic. The country face is utilitarian and familiar. In contrast, the city face confronts many strangers every day. The city face enjoys playing with the anonymous social throng. It is a game of signalling and curiosity. Everywhere in the city there are little clans who mark themselves out as different, and belonging to each other.
In a bar one evening I am fascinated by a group of queer men who walk in, four of them, each overlapping in their aesthetic choices. He wears a pastel 80s jacket, so does he; he wears a colourful beanie, so does he; he has a short beard, so does he, and he, and he. They are self-consciously cliqued up, and bearishly attractive. At another table it’s hair: every person, male or female, has an enormous, teased-up tangle of curls. At a third table, it’s colour – everyone’s in black. I don’t know where I fit into this game, but it looks like fun. I love to see the young kids with their artfully painted eyes – curls and dots and lines in strong colours - like calligraphy on medieval scrolls. I want to do it. Should I do it for my audience at the local supermarket? My son loves to paint his nails. He is mesmerised by the process. Long minutes of sitting still, no touching, and delighted by the result – “look, pink!”
As I sip my coffee, a girl walks across the road in front of the window. She has a lovely swing to her hips. My gaze glides from her feet to the top of her head. She strides out in brown combat-style boots, above them black jeans, then a casual coffee in her hand, a long neck, and finally, hair swept up in a messy bun. She has dark eyes, but I don’t think she’s wearing any makeup. The way she walks – gorgeous. Straight up and swaying, like a beautiful tree.
Yes, today I’ve put on the face. I’m enjoying working here, collaborating with interesting people, wearing colours on my nails and accents around my eyes, noticing the playful diversity of this fabulous city. But tomorrow, when I return home, I’ll happily settle for more familiar things. The game can go on without me.
Comments