They say out there, with that false innocence of someone who has never broken a plate but collects shattered crockery, that a woman must define herself. What a monumental bore. To pretend that a single silhouette, a single code of fabric and skin can encompass an entire feminine universe is, at best, an exercise in endearing naivety; at worst, vulgarity worthy of a cheap daytime soap opera.
Because a real woman—and even more so this transgender woman who signs before you today with a sideways smile and a pair of silk stockings that barely withstand the friction—is not just a single protagonist. She is the entire studio catalogue. One day we are the film noir femme fatale who lights a cigarette with nonchalance while destroying a financial empire with the tip of her stiletto; the next, the ethereal creature from the early frames of the Belle Époque who defies the lens with a languid gaze and a neckline bordering on scandal.
Let us ponder the mise-en-scène for a moment. If life were a silent film by the Lumière brothers, my wardrobe would be the main plot and censorship, a mere decorative suggestion. There are mornings when I wake up with the geometric precision of a black-and-white drama: impeccably tailored trouser suits that hint at the firmness of my silhouette and the perfect curve of my waist, defying any manual of puritanical good manners. It is a cold, cutting elegance, the kind that demands to be unbuttoned with teeth and with the urgency of a final screening.
Yet night falls, and with it, the reel changes.
Velvet yields to satin, and the character mutates with the complicity of the shadows. Who directs this sequence shot? Absolutely me. A figure-hugging dress that traces every millimetre of my anatomy and my hips—those that widen with a magnetic and calculated grace—becomes the only alibi required. There is no room for shyness here: the fabric glides over the skin like a whisper laden with dark intentions, revealing that body sculpted through patience, elegance and an absolute lack of complexes.
There are those who applaud films where the actors do not even remove their coats to sleep. What a waste of celluloid! True cinematic sensuality, the kind we inherit from the divas who knew how to cast a sideways glance at the camera whilst peeling off a long glove, lives on the edge. It is the millimetre of lace peeking out dangerously where it ought not to, the calculated transparency that hints at the exact contour of an insolently moulded neckline, or the side slit of a skirt that turns every step into a direct threat to the sanity of those present.
"Eroticism is not about showing everything, darling; it is about making the spectator count the seconds until the projector light goes out and the real performance begins."
And dressing is, deep down, an act of mental striptease. When a woman decides what to wear, she is writing an erotic script where she is the director, the lead actress and the only authorised critic. Today I can be the perverse ingenue who stares wide-eyed before committing an unforgettable piece of mischief; tomorrow, the empress of the infinite neckline who refuses to negotiate a single look of adoration.
At the end of the day, gender labels and conventional wardrobes fall as short as a three-minute experimental short. We are the full-length feature film, complete with suspense, drama, and explicit scenes that would cause more than one classic film critic to faint.
theartofmadeline
blakekathryn
