Monthly Archives: July 2013

The perfection of imperfection

We bemoan nowadays how everyone is expected to conform to a set standard of physical beauty, but it was always thus. In one era, only chubbiness was regarded as attractive; in another, thinness; in others, women were binding their feet, all men had to have a full beard, and so on.

It seems society has forever demanded this aesthetic conformity. But beauty is a funny thing, and “perfection” – whatever is meant by that, depending on the times – often isn’t connected to beauty at all.

Certainly, there exist people who are undeniably beautiful, and also have, say, a perfectly symmetrical face. Often, though, what makes someone truly lovely is the complete opposite of that: it’s the beauty of imperfection.

I don’t necessarily mean imperfect in the literal sense of “not being perfect” – for instance, someone who’s plain of face, but with regular features – or that French term, “jolie-laide”, used to signify a person who is sort of ugly but nonetheless attractive, for whatever reason.

I’m talking about specific imperfections in one person/face, and how those can make someone really beautiful.

For example, I once knew this girl from Dublin whose eyes were ever-so-slightly off-centre or wonky; not cross-eyed, as in turned in, but one eye was aimed out a touch. You’d hardly notice it if it wasn’t pointed out, it was that small.

Anyway, she was really lovely, and I think that little imperfection was what made her lovely. Her face was pretty anyway, it was fine; but the imperfection raised it to some higher level of attractiveness which was hard to define.

This can also apply to people who’d probably be regarded as beautiful anyway, or something close to it. There’s an actress on the TV show Grimm with the same imperfection – slightly off-centre eyes – who is obviously very good-looking, she’s an actress after all. But what really makes her shine is this one “flaw” (which of course isn’t really a flaw at all).

There are others; as many beautiful imperfections as there are faces, depending on the observer’s tastes or viewpoint. Personally, I’ve always had a thing for fangs and overbites (yes, really).

To take an example: Liv Tyler has the most beautiful profile I’ve ever seen, and her overbite makes it; but that same imperfection has seen her described as resembling a cow, a duck, God knows what else.

Or here’s another one, a random memory from the mid-1990s: the band Sneaker Pimps released a great song called Six Underground, and the girl singing had these little fangs, and I still remember seeing her for the first time and thinking, Wow – that is so cute.

Skip forward to a recent viewing of the video on YouTube, and more than one commenter lambasting her teeth, saying she should have got them fixed, and so on. It really is in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

A multitude of freckles. A very long nose. Ears that stick out. One ear that sticks out and one that doesn’t. I’ve seen people described as beautiful specifically because their mouth never closes fully, or because their nose is crooked, or they have enormously bushy eyebrows. Not in spite of, you understand, but because of.

Why this is so, I don’t know. Something in our eye-brain-heart connection seems to like these imperfections, and more than that, it rails against a sort of bland precision: we’ve all known people whose faces were utterly forgettable, though there was nothing exactly wrong with them. Which, perhaps, was why there was nothing exactly right with them.

Maybe it’s as simple as this: the quirk makes someone unique, makes them themselves – and thus, makes them beautiful.


  • First published in the Irish Independent

Why I don’t like summer

Ever feel out of step? Really, truly, totally? To the point where you’re nearly afraid to voice your honest opinion, for fear that people will think you’re completely weird?

I feel like that around this time of year, every year. Because, because, because…I don’t really like summer. There. I’ve said it now, it’s out in the open, I can’t take it back.

I don’t really like summer.

I definitely don’t enjoy it, the way all of you seem to enjoy it so much. I endure it. I put up with it. I pretend to enjoy it, so as not to be churlish and rain – ahem – on everyone else’s parade. I mean, I can see that other people love summer. I can even see why they love it.

But I don’t. I almost dread its arrival, from late April or early May, when the days start getting longer and the weather warmer. I start to feel a vague sort of anxiety: oh God, here it comes again. Have to put up with this now until, thank God, autumn returns: a far cooler season, in all senses.

I quite like the long evenings – more than that, I really like the long evenings – but that’s about it. I’ve a particular aversion to the daytime and very bright sunshine (I know, not that frequent here, but we do get the odd burst).

All that sharp light, it makes you feel almost nauseous, but it’s a psychological rather than a physical thing…I think…

And when there’s a heat-wave – forget about it. Those torpid, surreal, horribly searing afternoons that just draaaaaaaag through time and space… The great American writer Don DeLillo said this of high summer: “There are days when a terrible message seems to be passing from sunlight to shadow at the edge of a striped afternoon in the returning fathoms of time.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I know what he meant. If you know what I mean.

It feels like someone has drugged you, and not with one of the good drugs either. Those days can make you feel dazed and half-crazy, like Albert Camus’ anti-hero Mersault in The Outsider, standing on a beach with a gun in his hand, the infernal sun in his eyes, blinding him, making everything skewed and unreal…

Summer’s a great time for kids, no doubt, and I loved it then as much as anyone else. Trips to the beach, ice-lollies, sticking things in melted tar to pass the day. What bliss it was to be alive that day.

But now, as an adult? I much prefer autumn to summer. It’s easier to cloister yourself away from the world (always a good idea) in autumn. Summer is too stark, too bright. There’s something depressing about it; time feels sluggish, even stilled to the point of paralysis.

Personally I feel more alive when there’s a breeze, when it’s stormy, even rainy… It’s like you’re stepping into the weather, fully engaging with it; whereas sunshine makes me retreat into the shade, under a metaphorical rock, like a self-aware lizard.

And at least there, you wouldn’t have to endlessly dissemble – okay, lie – about how much you’re enjoying the sun and isn’t it great and let’s all go to the beach and get scorched alive under the brutal, unrelenting god of fire in the sky.

Summer ain’t all that, and hot weather is literally and metaphorically painful. We see French and Spanish tourists trundling around in the Irish rain, and feel sorry for them. But has it ever occurred that the cool rain might be why they’re coming here in the first place?