I See Myself in Heavenly, Lithe Bodies & Women Who Iron
Exploring the relationship I once had between my body, art, and fashion; and how I denied access to anyone curious about my intersections. Content warning for eating disorders.
I’VE NEVER TAKEN a cab in New York City. I have dreamt of it in all my delusions of ending up in this city: darting from one meeting to another as an editor for a fashion magazine with biblical pull, typing up diet tips as commandments on my BlackBerry or heading back to my NYU dorm after last call, not trusting my navigational skills after too many vodka sodas. In one way or another, I saw myself in this city.
Brits have the iconic red telephone booth, but it’s New York that has always called out to me with the promise of a buzzing nightlife, one that would be enmeshed with my career. Home to the quintessential yellow cabs, like unripened apples against the greenery of Central Park, New York would offer me what small town Canada couldn’t. I’d trade burnt Tim Hortons coffee for espresso martinis, learning to tolerate bitterness for the illusion of cool in the face of fashion models and nepo babies.
My pilgrimage to the city never happens, remaining a dream that lives on in the décor of my abandoned childhood bedroom. I make do with Toronto and ride in orange and blue taxis instead. My BlackBerry is replaced with an iPhone that I use to share diet tips on pro-eating disorder forums. It’s not Vogue, but I have a solid following of other lithe bodies; other women and girls who disavow food, looking for more extreme tips than mainstream publications can offer. I think of writing’s golden rule: write what you know.
My iPhone has apps for calorie counters and exercise trackers, both connected to my Fitbit that buzzes when I get a text from my date. He’s at the Crown Heights restaurant I should have been at five minutes ago. I'm in an Uber, giving up my yellow taxi dreams in the name of modernity, staring at green street signs and wondering if my editorial work would have ever brought me to this neighbourhood had I not given up. I tell him I’ll be there soon.
I VISIT NEW YORK frequently, unsure if this proximity to an abandoned dream is a type of masochism or apology; a peace offering for what could have been. I have friends here from when I lived in Jerusalem. They take pity on my Canadian citizenship and offer their couches and guest rooms as refuge from North America’s most boring metropolis. On my last visit, I’m introduced to a close friend’s brother’s best friend.
He takes me to the Met to view Heavenly Bodies, an exploration of fashion through Catholicism. We’re both Jewish but I can fill in a lot of the gaps for him: Heavenly Bodies is the 2018 Met Gala theme, and my favourite one to date. I’ve learned more about this religion from Anna Wintour than I did from any world religion professor.
I imagine myself as Chaim Potok’s Asher Lev, passing through marble columns and feeling non-Jewish eyes follow. Staring at a portrait depicting crucifixion, my skullcap-clad date asks me a question any Sunday school student could answer. Before I can respond, I catch the glance of a elderly woman wearing a rosary. Her dark eyes dart to my date’s choice of headwear and then my long skirt. I realize we stand out in both dress and conversation.
We continue through the Met, eventually arriving at the crown jewel of my entire trip: designer gowns whose seams somehow carry the weight of intricate beading, lace appliqué, and glistening gems. I see McQueen, Dior, and Schiaparelli on view and I remember dreams of sitting front row at Fashion Week in New York. This may be as close as I’ll ever get, and as we pass a Yves Saint Laurent gown, the idea of whispering a prayer of gratitude crosses my mind. A silk evening gown resembling a stain glass window comes into view and I recognize it as a Jean Paul Gaultier. I once asked my agnostic mother why there was a francophone Catholic school in our small city named after the designer; she had to collect her thoughts before explaining to me the difference between Pope John Paul II and the French fashion house.
Jean Paul Gaultier. "Lumière" evening ensemble, spring/summer 2007 haute couture. Courtesy of Röhsska Museum, Sweden. Digital composite scan by Katerina Jebb.
The exhibition continues with mannequins of lissome builds, many appearing limbless as they drown in modest sleeves and long hemlines. Quite a number of the mannequins rest on poles - one half of a crucifix - and ascend heights that, at points, reach the ceiling. Their position aligns them with angels; heavenly waifs so light they hover above ground. Dressed in outfits spun of gold, they should be weighed down but they appear ethereal.
The constant craning of my neck, up and down, up and down, invites black and grainy dots that obscure my vision. Like these mannequins, I have not eaten all day. I am jealous of their fasting record and inability to feel dizziness. I move on through the show without complaint.
My date ends at Central Park, after crossing a 5th Avenue packed with cabs so yellow that in the sun, they looked almost gold. I enjoy a moment alone after my date heads back to Brooklyn, remembering the impossible measurements of each mannequin as I measure my wrist between my thumb and fingers. I will be able to touch my pinky to my thumb, soon, and I will be like those mannequins. Lithe at the expense of being lifeless.
I look at flights to New York before I even leave. I want another date with any man who will indulge my interest in art and fashion, and who doesn’t seem to pick up on my obsession with the thinness of mannequins.
MY UBER WEAVES through the graffiti-covered walls of Crown Heights, different from the Manhattan landscape I once imagined. Instead of sky high stilettos, I see black Borsalinos. My date forgoes the equally iconic New York staple (at least in Brooklyn), so his red hair is easy to spot. I hop out of the Uber, excited for what is now our third date.
We do not hug or kiss. He welcomes me to New York with words alone and a smile so bright it rivals his hair. I never imagined myself with a red head. He has a smattering of faint freckles down his entire body, or at least on the extremities I can see. We both cover our shoulders and legs no matter the temperature, a fabric barrier representing our dignity and being beyond flesh. Sometimes, I see his bare forearms when he chooses to roll his sleeves. He has never seen mine. On Shabbos, he wears a white shirt and black jacket but no tie. If he did wear a Borsalino, he’d be the type to wear it tilted and cuffed.
It is Sukkos and so the maître de leads us into a large hut covered with a bamboo roof. Tiny gaps in between bamboo rods allow for the smallest twinkle of starlight to enter, helped by lit candles on each dining table. The sukkah feels romantic and intimate, despite being shared by other patrons. I sit across from my date with his red hair and feel my happiness warm my cheeks, meeting his natural hue.
When it is time to order, I ask for a salad with grilled chicken. I am confident in my choice. I have studied the calories of enough meals to know this is my only option to keep within my restrictive diet. A three-figure digit governs my food choices daily; there is no exception for when I am travelling. I have discovered that the reason New Yorkers are so thin is because they walk everywhere. I do not allow this knowledge to let me overeat, fearing calories consumed will always outweigh the ones burned.
My date and I converse easily. He is studying to become a psychologist. I have made jokes to my friends about how I will save on therapy bills if this ends in marriage. They laugh with an unease that I miss, that I won’t pick up on until my third relapse.
I share stories about working in fundraising in yeshivas. He takes an interest in my work, asking attentive questions and nodding at all the right moments. When the waiter arrives with our meals, he doesn’t break eye contact with me until I finish speaking. He politely thanks the waiter as I look down at my own plate and feel my eyes widen.
I swallow hard as I stare down at the hamburger bun looking in front of me. I realize I must have misread the menu when ordering. My grilled chicken salad is not a salad, but a sandwich with a 200 calorie brioche bun. Eating this would not result in a sugar high but an emotional panic. My eyes shift nervously across the sukkah, finally landing on my date.
He asks if I’d like to go wash for ha-motzie. I feel my mouth gape open, then snap shut a few times as I try to formulate a response. It is hard to focus with a heart beating as heavy and fast as mine. He continues to hold my gaze, his eyes softening as he recognizes my discomfort.
“No,” I manage to sputter. “I didn’t realize this was a sandwich. I thought I ordered a salad. Do you think it’s weird if I take the chicken out and cut it up like a salad? There’s enough lettuce in here to be a salad, I think.”
Awkwardly, I start disassembling my sandwich. I feel sweat collecting at my hairline as my date’s eyes begin to narrow. He flashes a smirk that hides his true thoughts.
“Whatever you want,” he says, rising from his seat to go wash.
I haphazardly remove the chicken between the bun, seeing my knife and fork as the jaws of life. I would die if I ate this entire meal.
My date returns and glances at the massacred sandwich on my plate. Whatever he is thinking, he doesn’t voice it and instead asks if I have a gluten intolerance after making a blessing on his own sandwich.
I answer amen, then say no. He nods slowly, as if he understands, as if my answer doesn’t cause more confusion. We change the topic.
Large sukkah at The Bay Cafe in Brooklyn. Photo credit: Dani Klein.
MY ANSWERS OFTEN cause confusion. My roommate used to ask about my frequent showers after large grocery hauls and time spent in my room. She’d find recycled pizza boxes upon coming home, thinking I’d had friends over with such a large amount of food. None of my answers or responses, all of which were lies, gave her any clarity. But she was smart, and my lies gave her insight.
She once asked me about the painting of the anorexic woman I had hung on our fridge. I paused, startled to hear a clinical term fall out of her mouth. It took me a moment to realize she meant the magnet I had placed on our fridge after my trip to New York when I had first met my redheaded date. It is a print of Picasso’s Woman Ironing.
I am first introduced to Woman Ironing at the Guggenheim. I’m meeting with a friend in Manhattan before shlepping back to Brooklyn for my very first date with a redhead I met over Shabbos. My nerves dominate the day, and I don’t make for great conversation with my friend. We split up and view exhibitions independently.
I wander the museum, mostly anxious but also unimpressed. There is nothing on view that speaks to me until I see her. I experience a pause so severe that I feel a lapse in time when I take in the Picasso in front of me.
The world stops and it is just me and Woman Ironing. Me, looking at her sharp angles and dark lines. Lost in the blueness and feeling an aching as I recognize the look of resignation in her eyes. Some kind of grimace on her gaunt face as she works. The angle at which she presses down on the iron, hands interlocked shows skilled, experienced determination. The foreground gives way to the background and she is barely distinguishable from either. This is her life and there is nothing more. There is hardly anything to her at all.
I look at Woman Ironing and see the pain women go through, have gone through. Feeling resigned to domestic duties because of our sex. Our bodies can feel like a trap, an inescapable fortress even when we are lithe and weak. How do you talk about your fragility being the stronghold you cannot escape? You can’t, so you crook your chin down your shoulder and lean in with all you can. That you can do.
I later learn that there is a different version of the painting underneath the one hanging in the Guggenheim today, where Woman’s head is positioned at the same angle her left shoulder is. So she used to stand tall. I stand tall as I take her in but I feel small when I am face to face with her. I am just one woman even though I know others have the same experiences. I see myself in her and in them.
Before I rush out to my date in Brooklyn, I stop at the gift shop. I buy a magnet and a postcard adorned with Woman so I never forget her and how she made my world pause. I meet my date at Prospect Park and tell him about my new friend.
Picasso's "Woman Ironing" Credit: Estate of Pablo Picasso/Artists Rights Society; Photo: Kristopher McKay/Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation
THIS IS THE friend my roommate inquires about. Woman’s photo is placed on our fridge like the photo of a sister. I feel my brows furrow and I fumble over my thoughts as I acknowledge my roommate’s question.
I try to explain the moment time stopped for me, even with all the nerves I felt. I try to explain the sisterhood I saw in her. I try to even just say that I like the colours. My roommate nods solemnly and says, “I guess it’s nice to see your body represented in art like that.”
I don’t know that I ever made the connection. I become indignant. I don’t love Woman Ironing for sharp angles I thought she carved out herself, I love her for the way her body was a canvass for the pain she felt. A map of injustices, hardships, and inequities. I feel small again in that moment in conversation. I would normally do anything to feel small; this was an excruciating minimization. The realization that no matter what is going on underneath, people will look at your body and see only that. And even more, the realization that the way in which I cope with feeling pinned down by my womanhood, is another weakness I am judged by. Another fragility I cannot seem to escape.
My fragility shatters into tiny shards I cannot clean up. They become woven into the thick skin of my relationships, drawing blood and heartbreak. They become embedded in my life and I tiptoe around them as if they are from a broken glass I have yet to sweep up. Some shards remain, kicked into corners and stepped on years later.
I FEEL ONE of these shards acting as a wedge between my redheaded, New Yorker date and myself. It not only wedges us apart, but cuts deeply. He tells me he feels he cannot connect with me, that I do not open up and welcome him into the deepest corners of my mind. I can’t, because they are occupied by glass debris.
On the phone, I try to tell him that I have been opening up. During my last trip to New York, after the chicken sandwich massacre, I admitted to having issues with food. My date takes a deep breath. I imagine he has closed his eyes in frustration.
“I thanked you for sharing that with me,” he begins. “But there is more to it than that.”
I am unsure if he means there is more to what I have said; that I don’t just have “issues” with food but that I spend my nights slung over a toilet, my stomach extended like Piero’s Madonna del Parto or if he means that there is more to connecting with someone than an off-handed comment about food. It is possible he means both, but I can offer neither an admission of my problem nor an open conversation about it.
The phone call ends, and so does my revived dream of living in New York City.
I’VE STILL NEVER ridden in a New York City yellow taxi cab, but in Toronto, I am finding myself more open with others. I no longer see myself, physically, in Woman Ironing and I don’t compete with mannequins in fasting competitions. I’ve swept up many of the glass shards that linger in the corners of my being, and hold space there for the redheaded New Yorker whom I once cut.