On Beauty

     The fact was, he could still see her as a Botticelli. Odette herself, who always tried to conceal things she did not like about her own person, or at least to compensate for them rather than bring them out, things that a painter might have seen as her "type," but which as a woman she saw as defects, had no time for Botticelli. Swann owned a wonderful Oriental stole, in blue and pink, which he had bought because it was exactly the one worn by the virgin in the Magnificat. Mme Swann would not wear it. Once only, she relented and let him give her an outfit based on La Primavera's garlands of daisies, bellwort, cornflowers, and forget-me-nots. In the evenings, Swann would sometimes murmur to me to look at her pensive hands as she gave to them unawares the graceful, rather agitated movement of the Virgin dipping her quill in the angel's inkwell, before writing in the holy book where Magnificat is already inscribed. Then he would add, "Be sure not to mention it to her! One word--and she'd make sure it wouldn't happen again!"

      Here, Swann ponders the beauty of his wife (and former mistress/courtesan) Odette. Throughout In Search of Lost Time so far, Swann has a habit of comparing women to famous works of art. We talk about "types." ("She's not my type.") It's both charming and a little creepy to see Swann compare Odette to a Botticelli right down to her fingertips. (At least he doesn't find his inspiration in Victoria's Secret catalogues!)
     Today's equivalent might be to reference movie stars. For example, I am convinced that my dog Phoebe looks like Elizabeth Taylor. (She has a glossy coat of black and tan, white gloves, soft pointy ears and big worried eyes.)
     I saw the beginning of the Farelly brothers' Shallow Hal on television the other day. Possibly one of the worst movies ever made, it stars Jack Black as someone who suddenly sees women for their inner beauty. He doesn't realize that the woman he finds gorgeous (played by the very blonde and very svelte Gwyneth Paltrow) is actually overweight and ordinary looking. I assume he gets his comeuppance in the end and learns not to judge women by their measurements. Yet every frame the model-thin Gwyneth Paltrow is in contradicts such a lesson.

     Walk through any museum and you can see that there are few universal standards for beauty.

     My mother is enrolled at the Meet Me at MOMA program. Once a month, groups of Alzheimer's patients convene at the Museum of Modern Art to look at, and talk about, art. In front of a Klimt painting called "Hope, II," my mother recently described the oval shapes embedded on the gown of the pregnant woman who is the focus of the piece as "donuts," and added, "They're making me hungry!" She is clearly excited about the art, even if what she is able to express doesn't live up to her emotional impressions.
     Like Rita Hayworth, someone else with early onset Alzheimer's, my mother was a great beauty. Growing up, that's all I ever heard: your mother is gorgeous! Though she is still pretty, people now look at her as if she were a fossil and say, "I can see from her bone structure that she must have been quite beautiful." Yet my mother transcends age and time. She still has mad crushes on people such as Amir, a striking group leader at the Meet Me at MOMA program. "There he is!" she said to me conspiratorially at our last tour. "Let's get him!"
     And why not? After all, he kind of looks like someone I saw in a film once...