On Beauty

Technically still Wednesday.

So, the other day, a man I've barely gotten around to meeting claimed I was beautiful.

And now he's suggested I define that word.

Beauty.

Huh.

Above all else, it's subjective. "In the eyes of the beholder," goes the old saying, while another, more modern interpretation twists it to, "beer-holder," because after all, like in all subjective things, inebriation alters perception.

So, to put it simply, I am certainly not 'beautiful,' or 'pretty,' at least not to my mind, in part because I'm not a narcissist. Honestly, I rarely think about how pretty anything is, much less my own body. When I draw, it is not an ode to beauty, it is merely the act of recording a thought. Likewise, on the rare occasion that I take a photograph, it is not how beautiful the subject is, but merely that it exists. Technical imperfections may mar a piece, but it is always better that the record exists than that the moment is lost forever.

Beauty, though, is supposed to be more than simple existence, isn't it?

I think the dictionary definition would go something like, "aesthetically pleasing," or "pleasing to witness/behold."

Again, subjective.

I'm not particularly enraptured by the way blood spurts from a severed artery, but a psychopathic serial killer might well find such beautiful. Likewise, I'm pretty sure a burn victim would not share my enthusiasm for fire.

Physical beauty is also a fleeting, transient thing, especially in humans. Even the strongest statue will erode under the constant pressures of time and the masterless elements. While some people may age more gracefully than others, they still age, still wither, still die.

And truly, at that point, it takes a lot of perservatives and either the very most discerning of beholders, or the very least to find a dessicated corpse beautiful.

Rare jewels, with their brilliant colors and their inner fire are almost universally considered valuable, but a desperate junkie would likely trade a fistful of diamonds for its equal in drugs, without even the first hint of hesitation.

Beauty is also not particularly necessary. No human has ever died for want of a painting as they have for want of sustenance or shelter. Despite this, humankind is quick to attach beauty to things of dire necessity. A man in a desert would find an oasis glorious. Humanity also regularly seeks out things they do not need, creating decorations with no other purpose than to appeal to the ever-changing senses.

What is beauty then?

It is transitory, and it is fleeting; a lie perpetrated by our minds to persuade us to enjoy the sensations we experience. It's a lie to break up the dull monotony of continued existence. Many humans spend their whole lives in its pursuit. But then, humans do so often devote their entire fleeting, transitory lives to pointless minutiae.