On not fighting the seven signs of ageing

A few art classes ago, we did self-portraits. First, we drew ourselves from memory, then from a mirror. It was quite a revelation, in more ways than one. In some ways, I saw myself in the most honest way--I saw those fine lines of the past few years, saw the laugh line I've had since I was a kid. Noted the little discolourations.

Other people corrected my drawing. You drew your nose too big, they said. What, no, I have a big nose. I'm trying to be honest with myself here, and this is my nose--big. No, they said, look at yourself again, it's not that big, just a little bumpy. Hmm. The lips I drew were very pretty and I was a bit ashamed that I might be drawing what I wanted rather than what I had. I started correcting it and was told to stop and not spoil the drawing. I drew a prominent chin, my family chin, the one they said showed determination. Um, not that prominent a chin, they said. Really?

So it was a great exercise, not just in honesty, but in realising what influences other people have on your self-perception. You have a big nose, they tell you, and you imagine it bigger than it actually is. You have rather small eyes, they say, and you see everyone else's as bigger.

But, in that place of peace that only art can bring me, I felt neutral about everything. About my face, my looks, about what I might look like when I'm older.

The next morning, my vanity returned and I thought about the fact that, in a handful of years, I could look very different. Older. My skin would sag, I'd have noticeable wrinkles. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it brought memories of my grandmother.

My mother's mother was in her 70s when I got to know her. I was in my early teens. She was hardly your storybook grandmother--she had a reputation for being complicated, feisty and manipulative. But she had mellowed by then and, with me, she was as close to nice as she would ever be. Our relationship lacked love, but we had a mutual understanding and something close to admiration.

My grandmother was not beautiful but there were things about her that were. Her crow's feet were one thing I always wished for. It made her eyes look pretty, as thought they'd been elongated with kohl. I wanted them badly. Most of all, I liked sitting next to her and holding her hands. She had the softest, most-lined palms I'd ever seen--I found the contrast fascinating. And the back of her hand. It was thin-skinned, and her veins stood out, green, fat and rounded. If you pressed down on them, they moved to one side. I remember us both laughing at that. Her face had been rather masculine and long when she was young, but not having known her then, my memory of her face is a lovely one, made softer and more beautiful by her sagging cheeks.

--
It took me a long time to realise that all my memories of my grandmother's beauty had to do with her age.

I don't know when my face will start to change but I hope I have the courage to look forward to ageing. I don't want to grow older fighting against myself. I hope I can keep returning to the innocence, the truth of that time with my grandmother, and to the peace of that art class.

I'm no saint (as vain as they come sometimes), so it won't be easy. The only thing I know for sure is that I'll be happy when I get crow's feet.