Two years ago, I put photos on the internet of my plus size bod in a bikini. This past year, the
curvy bikini thing has really taken off, and I’m honored to have been a part of
that revolution. But between then and
now, my self-love has slipped some. I’ve
gained a little weight, coming back up to my extremely stable set-point. I’ve had an episode of depression. As part of that depression, I’ve been less
active, so my body isn’t as healthy right now as I like to keep it, regardless
of size. As a body love advocate, it’s
hard when I find myself self-hating.
It’s difficult to talk about. But
yeah, that shit happens.
I’m part of a monthly women’s spirituality group. Once a month, we get together, make a meal,
eat, share our joys and challenges, and do an activity. On Friday night, I was the host, so it was my
turn to come up with our activity. In
the past, I have done groups on trance dancing, the tarot, Zen meditation. Over the years, we have explored everything
from feng shui to past lives, dreams to Isadora Duncan.
I knew I wanted to do a group on body love. I needed it.
I know most women need it. As I
was brainstorming activities, I remembered posing for my sister, who is an
amazing artist, as she sketched me nude.
I had seen her sketches of strangers, the lines of their bodies, the
wrinkles, the rolls, the curves and shapes.
I had seen how the “imperfections” were the most beautiful parts. So I asked her to sketch me. I watched her click into artist mode, where
she was no longer looking at my body as a body, but only as shapes, lines,
curves. In that space, there is no
judgment. There are only shapes. I wanted to see myself that way.
Before the group met, I tried it. I took a photo of my nude torso in the
mirror, and then used the photo to sketch myself. I don’t know if it would work for everyone,
but I am enough of an artist that it worked for me. My belly was no longer this sagging thing to
be judged or hated. It was a shape, a
curve, that I was trying to accurately capture with my pencil. It was a completely non-judgmental space and
a very transforming way of seeing my own body.
When I finished the sketch, I looked at it as a whole. It was the kind of body I would wish
for. And it was mine. As a set of lines, it was easier to see the
beauty. The perfection of the
imperfections came across in a piece of art in a way that doesn’t happen in the
mirror. I decided to write over the
pencil lines with my thoughts about my body.
I intended to do affirmational positive body talk, but what emerged was
just… what is. “This is my fupa, my
apron, my flap. It used to hold my
precious children.” “This one [my right
breast] is smaller and lower.” No
judgment. Just… what is. When I was done, I erased the pencil lines,
and was left with my body shape, created out of my language about it.
I was left with a sense of peace. And this incredibly powerful piece of paper.
 |
| My body, in my own words |
The next night, the group met. We ate and drank and talked. And then it was activity time. They did sketches of their legs, their
bellies, their smiles. I watched as they
clicked into artist mode, trying to capture the beautiful lines of
themselves. I did a second piece with the
group of my face in profile. I have
struggled with my nose for as long as I can remember, and more recently with my
neck, which hovers just on the cusp of a double chin. As a piece of art, though, my nose is the
best part. That roller coaster curve of
bridge, bump, and ball. That’s me. It’s one of the defining curves of my body. Although slightly larger in person than it is
in this drawing, that curve of my nose is what makes this image identifiably
me.
 |
| Faces are way harder to draw. If you try this at home, maybe don't do your face. Because dude, hard. |
If you struggle with body image, I encourage you to try this activity yourself. In the aftermath of it, I feel a kind of calm acceptance I haven’t felt before. It’s different from the exuberance, the “I am
one sexy bitch,” of the bikini project.
This is a quiet love. An acknowledgment
of what is, without judgment or the desire to change it. These curves are me. These words and thoughts are me. I am a perfectly imperfect piece of art.
