Every once in a while a man must unbutton his cerebral duffel coat and get in touch with the flesh and blood of his mortal coil.
I work in the magazine business, so from time to time I look at magazines. One that recently crossed my messy desk was the cover of New York magazine. With most regional magazines I blink, and the covers with indigenous non-entities fade to black.
Not this particular one. I put it down to the voluptuous redhead in a corset on the cover.
That bodice-wearing redhead is Christina Hendricks and she is being heralded as the poster girl for a new kind of beauty. Which sounds like a media hammer to the head if ever there was one. I believe beauty to be in the eye of the beholder, and I’ve always considered a voluptuous shape beautiful. Still, it’s refreshing to see a full-figured woman on the cover of a magazine instead of the usual lo mein suspects. I’m glad that society is once more embracing women with figures that Chaucer would be proud of.
I’m sick of seeing the Deathly Hollows models who look like they’ve just clawed their way out the of the tomb and rattled themselves off to the front pages of glamour.
When a woman walks in beauty like the night, she should do so with some Rubenesque curves and have a shapely figure mama. Looking like a sister of Venus is so much better than resembling a scion of the Grim Reaper.
Plus corsets are damn hot. And I say that objectively, with a bit of the deconstructionist, post-modern, Metamagical Themas in me having an outlet.
It’s no good being recondite all the time if a man can’t sometimes get a whiff of his pre-cognitive self.
Right, nuff said about modern women in Victorian corsets, you’ll think I’m hot off the griddle.
“Poetry is, above all, a singing art of natural and magical connection.” Brendan Kennelly, Irish poet