Sometimes it’s hard to separate the concept of beauty from the concept of pretty. They’re different. Beauty is variable. It comes and goes. For example, Grammy Hall was beautiful once and only once, and that was the year she died. Natalie Wood went from pretty to beautiful in Splendor in the Grass. Anna Magnani was an ugly beauty who flung herself onto the dirt in Rome, Open City. All these women were beautiful. They were mesmerizing, but their beauty didn’t make promises. It wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t eternal.
If I wanted to be pretty I could put in an order for a face-lift, with an eye job on the side, and I could get rid of my Irish bulb to boot. Plastic surgeons would be happy to accommodate my needs. But then what? It’s a little late to start experimenting. And besides, pretty, with it’s promise of perfection, is not as appealing as it used to be. What is perfection, anyway? It’s the death of creativity, that’s what I think, while change, on the other hand, is the cornerstone of new ideas. God knows, I want new ideas and new experiences.
The difference between prettiness and beauty is that prettiness—like the Avon lady knocking at your door, offering up a selection of neatly wrapped gratification—is a dead end. Beauty, flinging itself onto the earth like Anna Magnani, is alive and fleeting. I’d like to let go of pretty with no hard feelings, but do I have it in me? Beauty is not an option. Beauty is like living with questions. There are no answers. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, does that mean mirrors are a waste of time? I don’t know if I’m brave enough to live without answers or to stop looking at myself.
