Societal beauty standards are ever-evolving, wildly inconsistent, highly subjective, and often impossible to meet. Among this sea of expectation and humiliation, one has to wonder – what does “beautiful” even mean?
A while back, I developed a mild obsession with vintage fashion, particularly that of women in America from the 1900s to the 2000s. Not only was I charmed by the unique garments and dazzling models, but I was also highly intrigued by the changes themselves throughout the decades, how each change often seemed to be a response to previous standards or to the significant events of the time. For example, much of the fashion trends of the early 1940s emerged as a result of World War II. Dresses were pleatless and cut to the knee to save fabric; shoulder pads were embedded in most women’s garments to create a strong, almost masculine silhouette. Many women were working in factories or fixing their own cars and homes, resulting in the desire for practicality and strength, both of which became standards of fashion for the time. In the late 1940s, however, the war had come to its end, resulting in less need for frugality. In response to previous constraints, women’s fashion standards swung in the opposite direction. Long, colorful, patterned swing dresses came into style, alongside gloves, bows, and pleats. The emphasis was now less on strength and more on femininity, grace, and of course, fun (you might be familiar with the iconic 50s poodle skirt!). We see that a lot of 40s fashion was a direct response to the war, and quite a bit of 50s fashion was a direct response to the constraints of the previous time.
My study of vintage fashion piqued my interest in the evolution of societal beauty standards as a whole. Already, we see that women’s clothing was often made to create the illusion of an ideal body type. The ideal body type changed frequently with the times, mainly in flow with the evolution of fashion. One might assume that, given the finite, dynamic nature of these ideals, there would not be a heavy push to conform to them – however, a colossal amount of women have found themselves going to detrimental lengths to reach the ever-elusive goal post of perfection.
The standard in the 1910s was to cinch one’s waist and push out one’s curves with corsets, as seen with supermodels such as Camille Clifford and Evelyn Nesbit. In the roaring 20s the ideal figure was slender and curveless, as seen with models like Alice Joyce – a stark contrast to just 10 years before. But – wait – curves are back in style in the 1930s, just look at Jean Harlow! Wait – no – it’s 1940, and we need to be strong, athletic, and broad-shouldered, like Katharine Hepburn… Oh, but it’s the 1950s, and just look at the curves on Marilyn Monroe, we need that too! And, of course, the cycle continues. You might be familiar with the endless weight loss pills and regiments that have pervaded our markets for the past couple of decades, especially during the 1990s and the 2000s, during one of many thinness crazes that put countless women in the hospital. But in the 30s, 50s, and 70s, weight gain supplements were all the rage, encouraging women to fill out their curves and stop looking so “tired”.
The body is not alone under the scrutiny of fluctuating societal standards – it is also an affliction of the face and complexion. One example that comes to mind is in the 2000s and 2010s, when lip fillers and cosmetic surgery surged in popularity. As a child, even, I was told by a school friend that I need plastic surgery because my lips are too thin. Yet, in the 1920s, dainty, cupid-esque lips were adored and sought after, as with the popularity of models like Clara Bow. Throughout the 1900s, people would bask in dangerous levels of UV radiation to achieve a “healthy tan”; throughout the 1600s and 1700s, people would coat themselves in mercury-laden lightening creams to achieve a “luxurious paleness”(and, also, basically melt their skin off). Whether it’s within 10 years or 200 years, trends and standards never fail to come and go. Why is it, then, that we hold ourselves to such unstable criteria? Why is it that we endure such pain, to live up to something we don’t quite know how to define?
I’ve never really considered myself “beautiful”. When I was a child, this bothered me immensely – I thought myself horrid. I struggled with acne, oily hair, a chin and nose that I felt jut out too far. I have no memories during that time of people telling me I was pretty, but I have a couple of vivid ones of people – some, grown adults – telling me that I was “ugly”, that I needed to “fix” this and that, that I was “gaining too much weight”. Nobody really taught me about my developing body, or about how to take care of myself; I had to learn much of that on my own. It severely affected my self-esteem as a child – something had instilled in me the principle that if I was not beautiful, I should not even bother trying. At anything. Who was going to see me? Who was going to care?
I delve into such matters because I suspect that sustaining such damage at a young age, and subsequently having to recover from it, may have taught me a thing or two about what it means to be beautiful. I’ve since learned much more about how to take care of myself and my hygiene, but I still do not consider myself beautiful in the conventional sense. My body is covered in scars; my face is damaged from years of battling acne; my hands are oddly small; my chin and nose still jut out just so; my face scrunches up when I smile. However, I do not consider myself ugly either. I’ve come to accept that it is impossible to know if I am pretty or ugly, since the construct of beauty is about as solid as smoke. It’s subject entirely to opinion, and it varies wildly between people, regions, and time periods. It’s impossible to adapt oneself to a common gaze, because no such thing exists.
In the late 1800s, there lived an Italian heiress named Luisa Casati. It is impossible to neatly fit her into any one profession – she was an artist, a muse, a model, a devout fashionista. She wore live snakes as necklaces, she kept pet cheetahs on leashes. In some photos, she is dressed like a fountain; in others, like a peacock. She would ingest poison to dilate her pupils. She was known for her elaborate, unique fashion, her curly red hair, her dark makeup, and her eccentric, yet striking demeanor. Very few quotes of hers are accessible, but there is one that struck me, so much so that I think of it every time I look in the mirror: “I want to be a living work of art.”
When I was a child, I loved to draw. Even those who did not like my face, seemed to like my art. I would reach deep into my brain and splatter what I found onto countless papers, rescuing it, because I felt like my body was not habitable for such life.
I have been ugly. I have been beautiful. I have been a parasite. I have been a princess. I’ve had sad and dull eyes – why do I look so tired? I’ve had gorgeous and intense eyes – my, what colors! I’ve been too skinny for some people’s comfort but too large for others’, when I weighed the exact same. I have been too much. I have been not enough. If I try to keep up with it all, my bones will break under the pressure. So I take it all, every scrap of perception, and cram it together with all my strength, form it, like clay, into a figure unique, unknown, indescribable, an amalgam of vulnerability, of value, of those parts of me that I’ve heedlessly given up for want of worth, and watch it emerge, indestructible, from a blazing kiln, a Hellfire that has scorched it into what it intended to be, art, the purest manifestation of the mind. It will not be everybody’s preference, not even my own half the time, but it will be true, it will be what is within me, and that, I’ve decided, is all I care about. I am not beautiful. I am colorful. I am whimsical. I am surreal. I am unusual. I am a mess. I am not everybody’s taste. I am a living work of art, and nobody can tell me that it doesn’t count for something, because I’ve dealt with enough that no amount of battery can re-mold me into something you find acceptable. I respond to the things that matter to me. I respond on my own terms.
Humans have incredibly complex brains, so much so that even modern science is confounded by much of its function. We create, explore, ponder, love, rage, live – how can we reduce such a fascinating world, such an elaborate system, to a simple body and face, the very first thing we see on someone? Our minds are graced with metacognitive capabilities – we can think about our thinking, and we can think about ourselves, our experiences and how they crafted us. Why use that to oppress ourselves, to reduce our entire image to a body type or a nose shape or a skin “defect”, when we are so much more behind our eyes? I don’t have an answer for what it means to be beautiful, and I suspect there is none. But if I had to define what I strive to see when I look in the mirror every morning, it would be meaning, vivacity, and of course, unapologetically, a work of art, eternally in progress.
