Academic journal article Hecate

Iconological Observations

Academic journal article Hecate

Iconological Observations

Article excerpt

If my life were a painting, I know which one it would be: Manet's Le dejeuner sur l'herbe. Of course, it wouldn't look exactly like Manet's, it being a modernist painting, and me, me being a postmodernist girl; but in the manner of art, I could build on the past to create an image more suitable for today.

Can you see it in your mind? The layout. The figures. The background. It's a picnic, you know. An outdoors scene. Somewhere in France. Well, I'm in Brisbane so my trees would be leafy melaleucas, a red bottlebrush, good for colour, or even better, a jacaranda, in October. Decent foliage, decent framing.

So much for the setting. You get the picture.

And me. I'm in the centre, almost, a little to the left. Leaning an elbow on my left knee, but turned more towards the painter.

There I am with my blue hair and brown eyes, yes, that's right, and it's not painterly licence either. As a postmodern girl I'm allowed to redefine myself and reverse the natural choices of my genetic makeup. So, I have blue hair and brown eyes and I'm wearing, no, I'm not nude like the original. This is not mere titilliation, nor am I allegorical. But I'm close to being nude. I wear the come-hither-and-fuck-me uniform of the times, a skin-tight diaphanous mini-dress with no underwear, in red to pick up the red fur of the bottlebrushes in the foliage, in the background. That's why ! turn towards you, to let you know how well-defined my breasts look encaged in red diaphanous nylon.

To my right, and your left, there is a mess, the remains of our picnic. And what should they be? Fetta and snow peas on bruschetta, I think, with Chinotto. I know it tastes ghastly but the bottles are divine. Or perhaps, Lipton's ice-tea in cans. And home-made, not in my home, chocolates for dessert.

And what of the two men? My foot stretches out towards the crotch of the man to my far left, your right, metaphorically kicking him in the balls. He looks towards me, he is in love, and he wears, what does he wear? He's a postmodern boy too, so he has rings through nose and eyebrow, a stud in his tongue, hidden, but to increase feminine (mine) pleasure. He wears black leather pants, a fishnet singlet so we can see his nipple ring and, like the original, a beret. His hand reaches out towards me offering - a flower? a wineglass? a joint? Oh, you choose.

Behind me is the other man, looking at you, looking innocent. …

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