She is darned in black: silk skirt a glove on her curves, yet she tastefully salvages a bit of mystery by concealing every ounce of porcelain flesh. Her neck the only visible fragment of her body, since even her cheeks are camouflaged by a bloodly rouge, and her eyes disguised by dark circles. Everything is in place, except her hair which had different plans: Dark, wildly, nostalgic for nights on the town, and unwilling to conform to the life she now leads. But don’t be fooled by her thick rimmed glasses, double tall extra foam elixir, and PDA in hand..she is but an actress.
Hocus-pocus bravado. She labels Uncle Sam the tyrant and her artistic soul the damsel in distress. In her fairy tale she is the star: protagonist, antagonist, director, producer…She whispers poignant memories of trudging through the Balkans and basking on dessert islands to anyone who will listen to her weave them a tale. Her former commitment to humanitarianism, the guilt she lives with every day for not being all things: rehearsed, calculated, an illusion she believe. Truth be told, she has no external enemies, she is fighting only herself, and she is losing the battle. Fighting to believe she is a creative yet resilient spirit, not a corporate sell-out, quick enough to keep up with the boys, and competitive enough to drop everything that means something to her to win this race.
“Cut the bull-shit” he told me. And I told him he didn’t understand me, but I knew he didn’t need to. He didn’t need to know my thoughts and intentions to recognize the hypocrisy in my fairy tale. Abra Cadabra won’t work on them all. “If you call yourself some staved artist, get off your ass and go to the DIA, sacrifice one predictable night of dancing to paint a picture, to contribute to something you supposedly believe in.”
Sell out.
Yet she is but an actress, who can’t always win the Oscar. Who doesn’t even know she is performing because it is how she copes.
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