It is strange for me to say it, for the job that I do, but I do not care about beauty: strange isn’t it?
I do not care about it in the way that I see beauty in a “darwinian/illuminist” kind of way. So I think that beauty is what is useful.
For example I think that we dislike a turd because it is harmful to our system, while I think a peach seems marvelous because it is useful for a good diet.
In the same way a beautiful body and face are beautiful because our animal instinct makes us believe that they are useful to better transmit our species: it is well known that the animal species (righteously!) choose the strongest male to copulate, in the hope that their descent is always at its best.
In this context I perceive beauty in a way that I would like it to be less “animalistic”, but above all dictated from something that would privilege the intellect to the instinct. Therefore I do not like the too perfect beauty, too smoothed, too absolute.
Always more often I see perfect (models and not) people: beautifully modified breasts, fine drawn lips, sculpted muscles, flowing hair and perfect skin: I find all this annoying.
The spell binding beauty in my opinion is always imperfect. I feel that a beautiful imperfections spell binds us, more than a perfect banality.
In all these theories I thought of giving my very own small small contribution: in the recent issue of STYLE, with one of my editorials, they asked me to write a column and a photograph that would tell my story. The column is what it is, the photograph is a portrait where I purposely tried to be as real as possible: no photoshop, straight forward lighting and a pitiful detail on my little face. All in the picture here above, and even better if you click on it.
As to say: here I am, and if I want the truth from the others, I am the first to show it!
Many told me I was crazy, and that I looked like a ninety years old aids patient: fantastic!
I don’t want to be beautiful, I want to be real…