art/Androgyny is God
Growing up, I was called a girl, girly, or cutesy so often that the only thing I wanted more was to be manly. I wore the baggiest clothes, and abused my posture at every turn. When I realized in late middle school and high school that passing as a girl was as simple to me as playing up many of my traits rather than playing them down, I began to embrace androgyny.
The fashion world has long played up the beauty it finds in androgyny, be it the early women’s pants of Chanel, or the prepubescent males of Vogue’s editorials. Perhaps, this is the worlds comment on youth, which is often tightly linked to androgyny. It most clearly pertains to a concept of aesthetic appeal that has the dual qualities of both genders, bent bychanging global concepts.
Though I have androgynous qualities, compared to some, I am but a man with a feminine side. Occasionally, I wonder if my pansexuality is what draws me to people who inhabit the space of multiple genders. I have a few tidbits of news and knowledge pertaining to androgyny that my interest in it has accumulated.
Fashion house Givenchy has long struggled to find a unifying image. From Audrey Hepburn’s lady-like appeal, to fanciful turns under the direction of John Galliano and Alexander McQueen, the house has stayed LVHM’s second highest grossing company but has been at a loss for critical appeal. Enter androgyny, the defining concept behind many of current designer Riccardo Tisci’s concepts. He has taken the womens lines in a darker, less flamboyant direction and has elongated the silhouettes of the mens lines adding feminine tailoring.
This advert features Tisci’s transgender assistant Lea, a former fit model for his work. If you must know which one she is, she wearing the fuzzy top.
Karis is a west-coast performer whose androgyny has lead to success in film and media, he was featured in a recent music video by Cazwell, the performer behind a video we watched in class. He performs in burlesque and hooping shows.
and perhaps a poem too? I wrote this one a few weeks ago.
the angels have no gender
I awoke by a mirror
shiny and cold
from yelling a fate
my culture fortold,
sweating a liquid
of shame and disgust,
stripped of that which
would have been so bold,
and clasping my hands
o’er a mouth of mistrust.
Choosing my clothing according to tale,
I stared at the panel obscured on the wall
I prepared for a day in the life of a man,
disguising betrayal that man was not all
I felt I was (and am)… not alone.
The dream was still present.
The warmth of my skin had left such a fog
that I could not see in through polished panels,
of cunning and spite,
capturing, spinning and weaving the light.
I squinted through metal and glass and sin.
Attending dry air to lift away wet,
the oily perspiration slicked my face and hair back
A nightmare’s remembrance still would not abet,
spoiling hopes for solitude in my room
with a stranger behind the mirror’s brume.
A hideous specter
of beautiful rue,
sat strangely misplaced
in a world split in two
We swiftly locked eyes—
and viewing each other—
decided to be neither father nor mother
for door it was not, and mirror it is,
we are the same creature
by her grace (and his).