I am someone who does not regularly go outside. I prefer to be at home, and in some situations, maybe I can be considered a hermit. I will leave my home for errands, but only for a brief amount of time. But, in the instances I do go outside for the sake of having fun, I perform a ritual where I put on myself. I’m not sure as to what part of me is in control when I do this. I often do have issues with deciding whether or not I have a true and solid personality. But in the present, I do know that before I “dress” myself. I am not something I can consider to be my Self.
Fashioning and dressing the body can be a number of things, from putting on clothing to modifying the body in either a temporary or permanent way. It is the most immediately vibrant and tangible form of self expression that people have for both self and cultural identity. This is why there is cultural clothing, historical clothing, and various style tribes around the world. That’s why communities have traditional body modifications like tattoos or piercings. But for me, I find that expressing my identity is not my primary goal but rather the confirmation that I exist. As a person.
When I was younger, I had a difficult time making friends and understanding social functions. I didn’t know what to talk about. I didn’t know what songs to listen to, who to fawn over, what was in, what was not. Fortunately, parts of my childhood can still be empathized with by my fellow first generation peers. I tirelessly learned an instrument for the sake of a college resume. I studied late into the night to stay at the top of my class. My classmates bullied me relentlessly for years because of my ethnicity and physical appearance. I got excluded from many social groups because I was fat and ugly. I watched TV and played video games.
But there is one specific factor that turned this normality into the anomalies of my “persona” or lack of one. All of the things I did were by myself, in my home. All of the things I learned, all of the things I consumed were not added into the construction of my identity of a person, but rather facets of a resume for a preceding reputation that could not affect how I acted towards others and myself. Even if others knew I could draw or play piano, I never told myself I would be an artist. Even if I had perfect grades, I never thought I would be an academic. Even if I was ugly or pretty (I still don’t know), I never gave myself a chance to form an opinion on my appearance. I isolated myself physically, and I used my skill sets to isolate myself mentally. I began as nothing, and even with so many things crowding the memories in my brain, I continued to be nothing.
After surrounding myself with so many intangible and tangible barriers, I picked up a problem where I feel that I am not a material being. In what people consider a natural state, (i.e no makeup and casual or simple clothing at best) I don’t feel like I have a true form. It is as if I am amorphous, as if my physical body is not there. My physical body is one of my biggest fears and weaknesses. When I notice it, I feel that it is intrinsically wrong, that it should not be this way. I feel like it is not a body, but rather when a body has made a production error. When I try to examine my body further, I tend to stray further and further from the realization and understanding that it is a part of me. To me, both dissipation and materialization is a threat. To manifest an image, whole or not, of my body is to place a vector of terror right in front of my eyes.
I am a ghost of myself. I don’t know who I am and it pains me to be so confused at the state of physicality. I hate who I am because I have nothing to perceive. I hate who I am even though there is nothing to hate. But this is the same kind of unbearable rage that one can feel when they are afraid of an unknown. The constant tension and anxiety of a void that is constantly behind the shoulder, in the mirror, by my side.
One of my biggest solutions to this fear is to hide my body with clothing. This is the most basic and integral part to creating my form without submitting to the fear of it. I can wear whatever I want, and the result is that I can be whatever I want. I assume that’s what fashion is for. It’s to manifest a vision, a dream, a concept; furthermore, there won’t be a need to actually modify the body. I love clothing in both the most materialistic and spiritual sense there is. I love expensive clothing, vibrant and monochrome clothing, thrifted clothing. When I wear an article of clothing, my need to take care of the piece makes me conscious of how I move, and how I carry myself. In this way, I become aware of my body and existence. I become grounded when I wear clothing that I care for. Just by putting something on, I suddenly find myself interacting with life. I am a person! I can express my humanity! And I think that’s such a magical and wonderful thing.
But that’s not enough.
When considering my face, I must make it an analogy of some sort. I start out, bare and unwashed. At this point, even if I look into a mirror, it is as if my face is not there, like it’s invisible. This starting point is as if I am still fiber being prepared to become thread. I wash my face. I dry it. I apply a toner, a serum, a moisturizer. Maybe even an oil. This is the same as the fiber being prepared and spun into thread. When I look at my skin in the mirror, I can identify and realize that the thread has begun to weave itself into fabric, plain like canvas, but cohesive. I can take the time to marvel at myself, knowing I am here.
After the construction of a canvas, I begin to stitch my face together. Until I finish, I will feel incomplete.
The routine of my makeup is like the construction of a handbag. The color palette changes from time to time. There can be embroidery or etching. At times even the base material can change. There can be additions or subtractions here and there; however, in the end, every result leaves only one feeling: completion. When the last step is finished, when the powder is pressed in, a false eyelash secured, or setting spray dried to my cheeks, then I can look at myself in the mirror and realize that, at least for today, I am a figure. I can look at myself and see that I am there. My face is like a handbag, and accessory used to finish an outfit. It will constantly change, but every time I finish, I will feel tangible.
Each step brings me to life. each step allows be to see myself, to know myself. I feel that I am born, and that I am free to know that I am born. Every day I repeat and backtrack on this cycle, resulting in a death at night, and a reincarnation come morning. But it is a wonderful feeling too. When I finish making myself each day, I can look in the mirror with pride. I say to myself, “I am here. I am alive. I am real.”
As described by Hye Eun Kim’s “The Wearing Process as a Rite of Passage”, garments and accessories go through a physical transitions. The skin can be interpreted as garment and vice versa, both going through physio-social phases as they imprint on the environment while simultaneously being imprinted on. It is only after I have reconstructed myself, that I can become this garment, and allow for a semblance of myself to enter this socialization. I am like a glass bead in a swath of frog eggs, stuck within them as they undergo transitional phases all at once. But, I remain the same, as the tadpoles become frogs and leave me in the dirt. I cannot follow their organic growth, but I can mimic it if a guiding hand paints my form and chips at my figure.
I exist without the luster of a human life. It is painful to imagine, and it is painful to bear. But, this is who I am. Ironically, this is who I will always be. No amount of anything can force me to change that. But, I’m sure ghosts are happy too when they possess new bodies. I’m happy when I am able to craft a new face for a new day. Every face is new. Every day, I’m new.
