Messy Mademoiselle

I was watching this French film with my sister one night. Louis Garrel was starring in it, of course. What a man. Am I right? If you don’t know who that is I implore you to search for a picture of him immediately. He is the kind of man where you look at him and suddenly you believe in love at first sight. His disheveled hair and dark eyes, his hopeless mannerisms when he falls deeply in love, his miserable countenance contrasted by his sly smile when he remembers how it felt to kiss that woman he loves. Imagine a handsome and tortured poet. He could make even the most nonchalant woman want to throw away her independence. He got me thinking about the type of man I am interested in. Do I date my type? Have I ever had the chance? I’ve been in love a few times but can I say that any of them happened to look like who I imagined myself with? 

I would begin to say that my “type” of man’s appearance is not concrete. It has never been consistent.

Actually, if I had a photo collage of every man I’ve dated it would look as if I put effort into choosing a new style each time.

But it is only now in this moment that I am actually putting any ideal characteristics to paper. Many of the women I know have made checklists for the type of man they saw themselves dating. These lists have been used as a tool but perhaps more often as a weapon. To that effect, their lists have successfully kept the “wrong” men away from them and also have helped them to keep their integrity intact, even if their beds are more often than not, empty.

I find it so harsh though. I really see my romantic side come to the surface in the case of judging a man’s appearance. I couldn’t look at the whole population of men and separate them and say these are the ones whose appearance stand out as above all the rest. No. What attracts me is not their eyes but what lies behind their gaze. It is in how they look at me with their eyes and how their expressions can’t be hidden within them. As for their physique, well it would be a reflection of how they move through this world. He could not move through it awkwardly and stiffly but instead he must move powerfully and yet delicately.

I read once about different ways to approach looking at a work of art. I remember it said that when you look at a painting from afar the picture is clear and it is all too easy to form a quick judgement. As you take steps towards the artwork though, the image is less visible and the details show up more obviously. If you get close enough you can see where the artist began a brushstroke and where it was finished. You can see where one paint color overlaps and blends into another.

Appreciating a work of art from this perspective helps you to release prejudice and bias and allow the piece to move you through your senses.

I would argue that more than any of the things listed on an “ideals” list, it is how he kisses you for the first time that determines what he will look like to you. How he laughs and when and how often that will begin to paint a clear picture in your mind of who it is you’re looking at. What words he uses to tell the most detailed and uninteresting story that he is obviously excited to share, will determine the frame that holds the painting of himself. Every glance he takes towards you, simply mesmerized by your details when you aren’t looking, will determine what shades of paint he is colored by.

It’s almost too complicated to communicate. But when it does find you, and it does, the magic of love wipes all of the ideals away and just leaves the brushstrokes that form a painting of a man, each one formed from a different amount of pressure and intention and each one a beautiful color.