I'm hard to pin down when it comes to pinups - should I be myself or should I sexify myself with super sick phatness? Should I succumb to lax sexuational ethics?
How about this? Pinup 1
If I told you that the me in this photo (brown wig, June 5/13) had written the best-seller 50 Ways to Make Men your Panting Slaves, would you see the image in a new light? If I were a trailblazing superhero-type politician (please don't call me an oxymoron) or a NASCAR winner, then what? How about if I were a Nobel Prize-winning astrophysicist who discovered dark energy around Uranus? Or what if you knew I was wearing red tassel pasties and a purple glitter thong under that demure white blouse and wraparound denim skirt? My facial expression would take on a whole new meaning, so would my mental state. And then you'd naturally ask, What (or who) is she doing with her right hand? Or simply, am I the famous editor of a French fashion magazine wearing a Chanel blouse and an Alexander McQueen maxi denim skirt with a diamond skull motif below the knee? As for men, we cannot dismiss the hotness factor of the plain straight-laced good-girl look. Um. Yeah...
Contextualization, what I call sexuational ethics, is paramount. If you're famous you can do pretty much whatever you want pinup-wise to accolades; if you're not, you better be ready to take off your clothes. But how far do you go beyond your comfort zone to be pinup sexy, if at all? (*Of course all my blogger friends qualify as famous.)
This was probably the most difficult of the portraits I've done so far in my art projects. In a parallel universe, or even in this one in another city or town, this could easily have been me(!). But I do like to think that I would have released my creative energies as maybe a pastry chef specializing in suggestive and outrageous desserts, a champion of the PTA, or a choirmaster with a penchant for quirky hymns. But I'm not those people.
What this exercise underscored is the world of adventure under the clothes, which may not be apparent from one's body wrapping. Myself, I just happen to wear my adventures in a more surface way as well. Does that make me shallow?
Which leads me to Pinup 2
The sell-out audience listening my heavy-metal air ukulele solo were riveted to their seats, even after an hour. That reminds me, I shall have to tell the security guards at the exits to stop twirling their batons so vigorously. Don't they know that causes repetitive stress syndrome? Ooo, and I need to buy more rivets...
I am simply spewing sick phatness here wearing the requisite pinup underwear and bathing suit, albeit with my underwear on top of my front-zip, thigh-length bathing suit. This photo, taken by Sandra (Lens is More) on May 11, 2013, didn't make the VOGOFF cut, only because Miz Bagg, the editor, is such a screaming biatch.
And then I come to THIS pinup. Pinup 3
If the first pinup was too cold and the middle one was too hot(?), this one is juust right. That's what I wore on Wednesday on my inspiration walk: my home-made T with low-rise jeans and my gym shoes. I am feeling very normal-self, minus specific sexification, but strong pinup-wise.
This post was inspired by the pinup/sexy conversation sparked by Bella at The Citizen Rosebud, which was then swept up by Jane George at Flight Platform Living and Desiree and Curtise and Tamera, and more I'm sure. In a world where people, an alarming number in fact, will have sex with anything with legs - probably insects too if it were possible - there's lots of room for interpretation about the concept of sexy.
Which brings me back to sexuational ethics. I find that sex-o-vision is always more acute if there is a RELATIONSHIP or context to power it. A Steve Buscemi-lookalike as a neighbour? Probably not sexy, unless he were exceptionally funny and smart. Steve Buscemi on the big screen? Yup, sexy. If a chorus line of male strippers gyrated their way into my living room while I'm dusting, I'd hand them all sponges and tell them to get started on the kitchen.* And men with model good looks? Meh. Why is it so easy to judge the sexiness of men but so many of us knock ourselves out when it comes to sexiness in ourselves - especially with our clothes on and especially with our clothes off.
If popular culture celebrated scientists and brains as sexy, you can bet Pinup 1 would be a contender, well, if I had someone else's brain. But it's Hollywood that seems to call the shots on sexy standards. I've never liked the Dove campaign for real beauty ads* because now we not only have professional models running around, laughing, in underwear, but our female friends and family members too. This is supposed to be a form of emancipation? And then there was that show How to Look Good Naked (a guilty pleasure). Please don't make me disrobe in the local shopping mall to prove that I'm attractive or love myself. Although I wouldn't mind a hearty wardrobe malfunction on the red carpet if I were famous and secretly got paid heaps of money for it. (Question to self: Would I disrobe for a centrefold for a million dollars? Just try me! Heh.)
Ah, life is funny. I guess we might as well dress up or strip down and enjoy it when possible, or not, and content ourselves knowing we're sexy on the inside - or not. Sexy - hate that word! Must. Stop. Now. Too many issues and just a weeny blog post. Plus, nobody pays me to be coherent. Ooo, which reminds me, I hope you've all seen Sarah, Misfits Vintage, in the June VOGOFF as Dr Hettie Hackenbush - now THAT's sexy, underwear under a winter coat with a sexy brain too.
Would you pose for a centrefold for a million dollars? What if it were for a women's magazine?
Oh, I'm linking up to Patti's VISIBLE MONDAY at Not Dead Yet Style. Drag your oozing sexiness and femme fatalism (actually, fatale-ism) over to Patti's garden of forbidden fruits (which means covered in whipped cream and chocolate, maybe swimming in liqueurs too). See you there.
*That scenario would NEVER happen as I don't dust.
*Lauded soap campaign in North America which features women of all shapes and ages running around, laughing, in white underwear. How unrealistic. Who wears white underwear any more?! (That soap burns my face like acid, by the way.)