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It's there, modestly hidden as befits its pariah status. Ultimately destined for greater glories in BB heaven |
Enough of being clever-clever, of showing off, of pretending to be elite.
Time for a post about everyday matters, common to us all but as yet unexplored. Time for belly-buttons.
There it lies at the centre of the small universe we all command. Present but mainly ignored. Except during those moments of contemplation while bathing, when the mind is drawn ineluctably (Stop it! Aren’t we supposed to be sanctioning five-dollar words?) to the possibility of fluff and its removal.
But why remove it? Who is it harming? Leave it be, just this once.
The thing about belly-buttons is they look unfinished. No one I know has a pretty one. As if the obstetrician (Gynae-man? Midwife? Motorbiker just passing by at the time?) had decided that separation – of mum and child – was the only requirement. That tidying up afterwards could be regarded as unskilled labour and left to someone who was unfortunately on strike. Leaving the poor unwanted umbilicus to its own devices.
Vaguely I seem to recall that those who expect every square centimetre of their skin to be photographed for display in fashion magazine have the thing removed. On the basis that a healed wound is hardly photogenic. Not a principle that should be further developed, I hope. There are certain politicians – no names, no pack-drill – who’d look better headless.
But might the belly-button be adapted to some useful function? A storage place for… just what? Diamonds? One (very tiny) ear bud? An emergency supply of salt? A carefully folded ten-pound note?
Could the belly-button be artistically rehabilitated? Forming the centre-piece of an elaborate tattoo and entered for competition. Integrated with a hanging basket of alpines. Portrait-painted by someone presently big in conceptual art.
Must it always blush unseen? Does it deserve its own charity? Projects, projects.
Your photo-call problem can be solved in an instant using the Clone Stamp tool in Photoshop.
ReplyDeleteThe thing always reminds me of the tied off knot of a party balloon. I wonder if we unravel we may deflate ( another great unsolved problem that I will leave to others to tackle.)
Sir Hugh: The fashion magazines I had in mind (notably Vogue) would probably consider the use of Photoshop a vulgarity, a tool for peons. As I understand it the photographers who provide Vogue front covers are paid in thousands and occupy society status equal to the women they photograph. Their snaps (How they'd detest that deliberately chosen word.) seem to be treated like holy texts. To me they fail miserably, removing all sense of womanhood and replacing flesh with some new form of synthetic.
Delete"tied-off knot" is excellent. The crumpled look.
I dunno.... Belly buttons can be quite sexy on the opposite sex. Eastern belly dancers have always expoited the fact by decorating them with jewellery and shaking them in your face.
ReplyDeleteAvus: I bow to your wider researches into the fringes of pornography. It's a field I've always shunned, not from any moral standpoint, rather the aesthetic. The basis is to create arousal but the approach is so un-subtle, so unimaginatively commercial - apparently aimed at unknowing adolescents - that in old News-Of-The-World-speak "I made my excuses and left."
ReplyDeleteThere were opportunities in downtown Singapore when I was stationed at RAF Seletar. I came upon a small caravan - the sort that a Morris Minor might have reluctantly towed - with a scrawled invitation: "In here, see lady without clothes." No doubt this was mere prelude. I felt I should at least take advantage of the first part of this offer (the fee, in Straits dollars, was piffling) given my belief that the only necessary talent a journalist requires is unending curiosity. But my companion, another Junior Technician (Air Wireless Fitter), proved to be either a prude or just plain timid, or both, and I was disinclined to enter such a restricted cavity on my own.
Many years later my associate editor and I were returning from the Hanover Fair (a technological super show) and we stopped for a beer at a roadside tavern somewhere in Belgium. The time was mid-morning and the place was empty, the emptiness - shot through with strong sunshine - heavily underlining the sordidness of the furnishings. In the corner was a large TV blaring away and showing goodness-knows-what. Trying to make my beer last I scrutinised the TV screen more closely and it took me perhaps thirty seconds to realise that these violent convolutions were close-ups of a couple copulating. All the sex appeal of batter in a food processor. Again the question of arousal returned; why on earth would anyone conclude this would turn me on?
Similarly with belly dancing. It proves the human body is more flexible than one might imagine. But to what end? Suggestion beats reality every time. As a sweaty teenager my ultimate criterion for external arousal was Danielle Darrieux in La Ronde, a movie released in 1950 and therefore a million miles away from being explicit. I breathe somewhat heavily as I offer this confession.
Depends on whether you have an inny our an outy. As any child may tell you. People blessed with innies have the perfect place for a belly button fluff collection. When my daughter was of the age when this mattered, RTE (Irish TV) had a wonderful kids show on a Saturday morning - excellent scheduling - with characters Zig & Zag who even dedicated a short opera to it. Used to send my daughter into fits of laughter. It's available somewhere online. The show, not my daughter's laughter, that's private.
ReplyDeleteSabine: You have the knack of getting into the spirit of my more wingèd posts and this is one of them. Much appreciated. What with one thing and another I've lost weight in recent times and have been made aware - mainly in the bath - that I am a member of the Innie clan. Although I'm disinclined to pursue this forensically, my impression is I'm host to a reasonable amount of luggage space in the area under question. Enough, say, to accommodate a quarter of a tube of Smarties. Multi-coloured sugary delights that were (perhaps still are) best known as The Dentist's Friend. Re. your daughter's fits of laughter. Both my daughters were of an appropriate age to appreciate the launch of Sesame Street when we were living in the USA. I was particularly struck by Oscar The Grouch (so un-American it seemed) and his commitment to protecting his collection of Aretha Franklin records stowed away in the garbage can that was his home. A programme for kids that adults could bear. And then there was the admirable vignette when Ernie cut Bert's hair... but I must resist the temptation to ramble.
Delete