Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Body Topography
“No, no, no, you've got it all wrong!” I insist, with (for me) uncharacteristic lack of diplomacy.
The body-painting crew is discussing what patterns they're going to paint on the sacred king's bare torso. Thing is, they're all visual artists, trained to create visuals that draw and hold the eye.
This, though, is something else again.
“M. has one of the most beautiful chests this side of the Mississippi, and you want to cover it up?” I continue, with perhaps too much vehemence. “So that we end up looking at the paint instead of what's underneath?
“No. We want enhancement, paint that reveals, paint that directs the viewer's gaze, not paint that draws attention to itself.”
Fortunately, they're artists; they hear the sense of what I'm saying. The resulting body-paint that they create ripples and rills along the topography of his body like a stream through rolling hills, just as it should.
Later, when the shrouded Reaper, sickle in hand, comes out of the cornfield and leads him away, we all weep.
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