The fake ladies

Modifié le : 2019/07/24

The human species has had a sec­ond skin for about 30,000 years. This inven­tion of the Pale­olith­ic allowed him to reach the Moon and cir­cu­late around the planet.

Clos­er to home, with the rise of intel­li­gence and deri­sion, came mad­men, clowns, and writ­ers. Not only has cloth­ing become a sec­ond skin, but it is also a pre­text for indi­vid­ual expres­sion, for the col­or­ing of an era.

Until very recent­ly, bare­ly fifty years old, I pro­pose, this took place to the rhythm of fair­grounds, reli­gious rites, the mood swings of kings and poten­tates. Just look at the attire of Ortho­dox priests, the efforts devot­ed among some peo­ples to mak­ing hats and oth­er heavy orna­ments, feath­ered or plat­ed with pre­cious met­al. This forces us to real­ize that the human spir­it is so objec­ti­fied as to per­haps tak­ing its con­scious­ness away from the frog-like real­i­ties invent­ed by the chem­istry of the brain.

Ladies clown may also be an exam­ple. Apart from find­ing the thing fun­ny, at times I have nev­er been able to asso­ciate the phe­nom­e­non with sim­ple clown­ish behav­ior. Michel Trem­blay has, so to speak, enno­bled them, oth­ers have made good films out of them, but the fact remains that this exag­ger­a­tion of the woman remains mys­te­ri­ous to me. If psy­cho­an­a­lysts and oth­er moral sur­geons have their idea(s), if it is easy to bring every­thing back to these pro­fes­sion­al and com­mer­cial events, I see in them, on my hum­ble side as an ordi­nary guy, the courage to exist, the call for an exces­sive­ly com­i­cal vis­i­bil­i­ty in order to colour own’s mod­est pres­ence in the chess­board of anonymity.

The rea­sons for dis­guise are mul­ti­ple, often in oppo­si­tion to each oth­er. There is a wound for that one, a beau­ti­ful delir­i­um with this one, a cathar­sis, or an exis­ten­tial dead end, or even a sav­ing way out for others.

The Rio Car­ni­val, to put it mild­ly, is cer­tain­ly one exam­ple among many. There would be in a small vil­lage in Europe a spe­cial fes­ti­val where cit­i­zens allow them­selves, for a week (not a sec­ond more), all the excess­es, as if nor­mal­i­ty had become a coat too thick for their Florid­i­an souls.

Com­ing back to these false ladies who dis­play their fake attrac­tions as oth­ers return to their iPhone or Nexus (or what­ev­er the name), I remain per­plexed about the choice, the pre­text for mad­ness : the woman. Why don’t the dredge queens choose the buf­foon kings, the testicles-princes ?

Is mas­culin­i­ty a great shame or pain ? A goal so dif­fi­cult to achieve ? Some will tell me that it is quite the oppo­site. We will­ing­ly dress up in the inac­ces­si­ble, we appro­pri­ate it com­ic to hope to touch its inex­haustible power.

Maybe. But I don’t believe that such pow­er exists in women, nor in men. The trans­gres­sion remains. This week, dur­ing the Lit­er­ary Pride Fes­ti­val, I met a man who, by day, is called Robert, and who, by night, is called I don’t remem­ber what is his female name. He saw his oth­er­ness in an aston­ish­ing way, dressed sim­ply, a few del­i­cate charms, a sober wig, clothes that a mature lady, prob­a­bly called an old maid, would wear. No clash­es, a dif­fuse ele­gance, and no real beau­ty, but a qui­et affir­ma­tion in the eyes. He/​she does not make more noise than that, it seems to me, does not try to con­vince, to shout. We can guess the strug­gle, the impos­si­bil­i­ty of dis­play­ing dur­ing the day, in addi­tion to week­ends and hol­i­days, this oth­er way of being. How­ev­er, the objec­tive seems to have been achieved.

Any dif­fer­ence is fright­en­ing, both for oth­ers and for what is mov­ing with­in. That’s what I per­ceive in fake ladies. Would that be a big or a small sub­ject for a nov­el ? There is so much to say and think about. Mind, heart, body are all mutants… and each of these uni­vers­es, inces­tu­ous­ly linked, pulls the strings of our behavior.

We will prob­a­bly nev­er see the end of this bur­lesque series.