From Sacred Temples To Self -Expression Canvases. Sounds like progress to me.

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The good folks at Retrospect are asking about tattoos and piercings – those permanent (well, mostly permanent) ways we adorn our bodies. Now, as a former dedicated follower of the “body-as-a-temple” school of thought (courtesy of Catholicism, bless their metaphorical heart), I found myself firmly in the pew, not the piercing table. But hey, no judgment! To each their own, right?

Traditionally, tattoos and piercings were like badges of honor – a warrior’s battle scars etched in ink, a pharaoh’s bejeweled reminder of their divine status. Fast forward a few millennia, and these practices have become a global phenomenon. Walk down any street and you’ll see everything from delicate butterfly wings fluttering on shoulders to full-blown sleeves that could rival the Sistine Chapel in detail. (Though, with fewer cherubs, hopefully.)

Now, don’t get me wrong, the artistry and creativity behind some tattoos is often undeniable. They can be stunning testaments to personal journeys, artistic expression, or just a really deep love for their pet goldfish, Bubbles. But for me, the “temple” analogy resonates. My body is a gift from the Big Gal/Big Guy upstairs, and while I’m all for a little self-expression (hello Hawaiian summer shirts) something about permanently altering it gives me pause – a long pause – a life long pause so far. It’s like writing on a priceless manuscript – sure, you can personalize it, but it kinda takes away from the original work, you know?

Think of it this way: if your body is a temple, wouldn’t you decorate the walls with beautiful paintings you can swap out every now and then? Plus, with this temporary art, you can have a different masterpiece every week! One day you’re sporting a Shakespeare quote, the next you’re rocking a portrait of your cat dressed as Napoleon. The possibilities are endless (and commitment-free!).

So, there you have it. I choose to express myself through the written word and the occasional statement sneakers. But hey, if rocking a full-body sleeve of your favorite video game characters makes you feel like a total badass, more power to you! After all, in the grand scheme of things, whether you’re a canvas of ink or a walking advertisement for sensible footwear, we’re all unique works of art – temporary or otherwise.

 

–30–

 

Saturday Night at the Big Y

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Saturday Night at the Big Y

When the lights went out in New York during the great northeast blackout of 1965,  I was browsing with a friend at Georg Jensen,  an upscale Madison Avenue shop.   All us shoppers held hands,  and in single file we groped our way out to the dark street.  (See Aunt Miriam, Diva)

And some years later I was in a movie theater when suddenly I smelled smoke.  We were told to evacuate and we all hurried out post-haste.  And more than once at Jane Addams High School in the Bronx where I taught for many years the principal ordered the building evacuated after a bomb threat .  (For more about Jane Addams see The Diary of a Young Girl,  Magazines for the Principal,  The Parking Lot Seniority List,  and Educator of the Year; Remembering Milton)

Then incredibly in 2012 when Hurricane Sandy made landfall in New York,   we were ordered to leave our apartment building after the basement was flooded knocking out the gas and electricity. (See Cooking with Gas)

And recently I was ordered to evacuate a building once again.

We were expecting friends for Sunday brunch in the country and I planned to shop for what I needed on Saturday.  But the weather was glorious that day,  and knowing our local Big Y supermarket is open every night until 10,  I procrastinated my shopping and didn’t leave for the supermarket until after 6.

All started out well – I got a parking space in the Big Y lot near the shopping cart station,  I remembered to bring my shopping list,  and even remembered to bring my reusable bags.  (Unfortunately I did forget an umbrella.)

Once in the store I walked up and down the aisles filling my cart and crossing items off my list.  But just as I got to the checkout line,  I heard the alarm and then the announcement.

“Attention shoppers!   Leave the store immediately!  The fire alarm has sounded and although there is no smoke or evidence of fire,  according to Fire Department protocol the building must be evacuated.”

And so I abandoned my shopping cart,  and with hundreds of my fellow shoppers I headed for the exits . Then once in the parking lot I found myself in a torrential rainstorm –  with no umbrella.

Very wet,  and with none of the groceries I’d gone for,  I drove home.   Later I called the Big Y to ask what had happened,  and was told fortunately it had been a false alarm.  Early the next morning I went back with my shopping list.

Although stressful to some degree,  and certainly inconvenient,   all my evacuations were safe and relatively orderly.

But what nerve to evacuate the Big Y on a Saturday night when I had guests coming for bagels and lox on Sunday morning!

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Modern Primitives from the gay 90’s

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 In San Francisco in the early 90’s it seemed like everyone from lawyers to street punks was getting pierced and tattooed.   "Body Modification" was the buzzword with tattoo and piercing shops as ubiquitous as Starbucks.   Above a popular sex club sat a large school to train would be piercers.
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