When I Was a Child, My Mother Told Me the White Flecks on my Fingernails Were From Telling Little White Lies

I've been thinking of subversion in plain sight, and of erasure as of late.

I've been in a class that's taught in Spanish going through the movements of Realism and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and Naturalism and related information that has me tugging back the timeline of history of art and literature.  I'd never really learned much about these things in English, so it's been a bit of a carnival of a code (art terms) within a code (Spanish) within a code (half-assed mental interpretation to English).  Suffice it to say (specifically as it relates to this Pre-Raphaelite business) that there has been more than a handful of glances into the English window of what our professor refers to as "Santo Wiki" (Saint Wiki).

Hot nose owner

(pause)

Aubrey Beardsley has been one of my all-time favorite illustrators.

Let's begin with the obvious reason to get it out of the way, and to usher my embarrassment out of the room:

As many of you know, I have a thing for people with broken and/or distinct noses.  I don't know what it's about, exactly, (which is to say that I know exactly what it is about but will never tell you) but he would, without question, fit within this category of nose-owner. (See above).

However, it is the aesthetic and content of his illustration, in conjunction with the questions about his sexuality (surprise) that leaves me in love and craving his ghostly hand to reach into the present day, and keep drawing.

Let me show you the first drawing of his that I saw and immediately fell in love with.  It is also one that, ultimately, would be the drawing that lured Oscar Wilde into commissioning him to illustrate his play, Salome:

The caption reads, "I have kissed your mouth, Iokanaan, I have kissed your mouth", which fits the story. Interestingly, a few French speakers have said it can be translated to read, "I have fucked your mouth, Iokanaan, I have fucked your mouth". Iokanaan is John the Baptist. The translater was Boise (Wilde's lover), the writer Wilde, and the Illustrator, Beardsley. I'll leave it at that. Smirkingly, but I'll leave it at that.

After seeing the illustration, Wilde supposedly sent Beardsley a copy of Salome with the inscription, "For Aubrey: The only artist who, besides myself, knows what the dance of the seven veils is, and can see that invisible dance."  Of course, Wilde was also super offended and slightly pissed at what Beardsley would end up coming up with, insinuating that Beardsley's illustrations shined brighter than his own Salome.  (Whatever, Wilde. You are clever in your words, but stop being a Pretty Pretty Princess. You can't bring a choreographer as your escort, then pout when they outshine you on the dance floor.)

Santo Wiki reports, "Although Beardsley was associated with the homosexual clique that included Oscar Wilde and other English aesthetes, the details of his sexuality remain in question. He was generally regarded as asexual."  

We all were, doll.  Particular vanillas and straights try to frame us all as asexual or broken or perverse or, somehow, all three.  

As I slide my fingers down the timeline of history, it is incredible to feel ("Incredible", here, meaning "sad" or "disgusting") how many beautiful queers were erased, blurred, imprisoned, and killed. Beardsley's story is mid-grade and privileged in this regard. There are so many stories that get darker, more invisible, more blue and purple blood vessels, more dead.  

And as my fingers slide back up and come to rest on present day, it is still happening.  

(Here I'm thinking of so much but of the rate of murder of trans people of color, specifically.  How the sound of self-back-patting about shit like It Gets Better and same-sex marriage drowns out the sound of violence that targets gender non-conforming people of color in a way that deems it an unimportant topic, and the people as disposable.)

And as my fingers slide back up and come to rest on present day, it is still happening.

I've been thinking of subversion in plain sight, and of erasure as of late.

 

-- k.

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In other news:

1) I can't stop dancing on my bed.

2) This week's link to share is via my friend Lewis and has to do with alternatives to calling the cops:

Here