I talked with Michelle Ried yesterday briefly. She said something that for me it’s hard to believe. Regardless if it’s true or not, if I believe in it or not, I am the way I am. And I’ve been thinking… Oh-oh! But bear with me.
A while back I thought of those intellectuals who met regularly during the mid and second half of the 19th century or the three generations of Nyugat writers. They were just people like you and me. Friends who discussed what was going on in the world, who wrote about their backgrounds, about their lives, about the future they imagined. Editors, writers, teachers, thinkers. Just people. Friends. They wrote on paper. By hand. Into notebooks, articles for magazines. Today that still happens. Today there are still prestigious magazines that might ask you to write an article for them. These people a hundred years ago created their own literary magazine and that lived on for over three decades, until World War II.
Today I was thinking about this place. About Women’s Perspective. That WP was started in October last year, nine months ago. That it was called an online magazine. That it’s not even a year old and how much creative work and effort has been poured into it. It’s not Nyugat by any means and our circumstances are very different, but we are the ‘youth’ of today’s literary scene (search for Pilvax cafe in in Budapest and the Youth of March in 1848). Some as writers, some as organizers, but most of us as people who enjoy arts in many forms.
Today I saw four pictures from the 1920s and even though I said to Michelle yesterday that I can’t write anything now, today I wrote. I wrote a poem (sharing it further down) and I wrote a note that I’ve since deleted. I am writing this piece instead.
The pictures of those paintings were accompanied by a note that told me the writer of it knew what he was talking about. I am now sad that through an impulse I’ve deleted mine, because I praised him, Thomas, even though not by name. Because he is one who, through those notes and articles, by spreading his knowledge, makes our lives richer. The pictures that I would’ve never seen otherwise. And those pictures made such a huge impression on me that my eyes welled and by seeing them I saw something else.
They were nudes of women by different artists. Those women lived on the canvas for a while, but were portrayed in a way that they were alive. You’d not ever judge them for their nudity, but praise them for their bravery, for allowing themselves to open up and show what lives in them. Those pictures live. They are so alive that I’d expect their flesh to bleed if I’d cut the canvas itself (which I wouldn’t do, I am only theoretically speaking), and the women to scream in pain.
But what mostly got to me wasn’t the quality of the paintings, the liveliness of them, but their beauty and the thought of what made them look beautiful.
And why oh why don’t we think of ourselves that way.
That double standard that we don’t even realize and just lash out and punish ourselves day in and day out. Why can’t we see ourselves as beautiful when we can see others. Women from a hundred years ago were capable of that, so why can’t we? When did the beauty standards go off track? Or our judgement. Off balance?
So thank you. Thank you for showing me art, making me cry, making me write. For making me think and making me feel. Because that’s what it is all about. To live and breathe art.
And then I scrolled, and then I saw a video of Marina Abramović’s live performance again in MoMa in 2010, when her former partner sat down in front of her and there were no words, just silence and facial expressions and their faces told a million stories they’ve lived. That somehow corresponded with the feelings the pictures awakened in me, especially the next video where she talks about who is an artist, and what does it mean being present. To live the moment.
***
This writing, which you now can read, was originally set to become a private letter. A message sent privately. Or kept in my archives. And then I thought, what happens to all of this?
In the scope of time, where I am just a little spec, there is this wonderful continuity and repetition as well. We are no different than the youth of the 1920s. We only write on computers and not into notebooks. We publish our thoughts, essays, articles, poems on online platforms and not in analogue literary magazines like them.
We are men and women, young and old with very different, at the same time very similar life experiences and sharing that with one another, in our own voices, in the now, can cause comfort as well as our eyes to get wet. We can relate. We are related to one another. And that’s why it’s a wonderful place to be. Writer or not. Artist of any kind. To feel included (even if that’s not what I said yesterday). So I share this publicly. So you see. So you can relate. See the link.
I don’t feel this is good writing, but it doesn’t matter what I feel about it. I can’t tell objectively anyway. I just know that I feel sad about all the deleted and discarded and hidden away pieces written by you that in my opinion had all that magic that I am after. That I can’t read them, I can’t see them and I really want to see and feel and experience it. “It’s meant to be touched.”
or I am meant to be touched by them. Even if my heart breaks in the process. Especially then. Break my heart with your art! You know how to do that.
***
Dimensions
Two dimensional
Is how I find I live
Not on a flat surface
Not defined by ink
But in every sense
In an illusioned state
In a dream world
And in reality
I saw a picture
Or four in fact
Showing women
In nothing they were wrapped
They were on paper
Or on canvas
Painted but once
They lived
In their worlds
Flesh and blood.
Breathing creatures
With their souls trapped
Leaking through their skins
Through their painted flesh
They had curves
They had extra fat
But what they had the most?
It was their confidence.
They were beauty
And adored
With brush and light
They haven’t for one second
Were shy or confined
Their poses said
Leisure, pleasure, content
Think of it now
When was it then?
They’ve sat there in their dimensions
Forever now
In the same positions
In front of our adoring eyes
And I think when if ever
Have I felt that free
That content and that much at peace
With anything that I have ever had -
I have my dimensions instead.
“Why can’t we see ourselves as beautiful when we can see others?” That question stayed with me. The way those painted women seemed fully alive, unashamed, and at ease becomes almost a mirror we struggle to look into. I’m glad you shared this instead of leaving it hidden.
There are so many quotable moments in this beautiful piece, Harriet. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us all. We are lucky to witness such art. "They are so alive that I’d expect their flesh to bleed if I’d cut the canvas itself..." Wow. That's powerful writing. And your poetry... yes. So good. We all feel this way, I think. You named the real goal. It's not to have a "perfect" body for whatever that could possibly mean, but confidence—or presence. If we are confident, we know ourselves and we are unafraid to share it. Loved this piece. Thank you for including me in it!! 💖