There was a time when no one knew what they looked like. Unless they
happened upon a well lit, quiet pond, they knew themselves only in the
responses of others. What would that be like? To know, by sight, one's
hands, one's feet -- but your own face would be a mystery. Your only
clues would lie in the faces of others; perhaps in the face of your
mother, or father, or siblings -- if you knew who they were. In the
faces of your tribe.
There would be no practice of gestures
and smiles in the dressing room mirror. Dancing, you would move your
body in response to the bodies of others, not in response to something
you had seen reflected. Would these people have been less
self-conscious? Would they have given more attention to others, and
less to themselves?
They say, now, that we are hard-wired to
recognize beauty, symmetry, in the faces of others. But I can't help
suspect that beauty might have been more fluid then. If some person
were gifted -- as some are -- with unusual sensuality, with power and
charisma, would their appearance -- whatever it might be -- become a
standard of beauty to their people? Would the tribe slowly find beauty
in round faces, or short limbs, or a gap between the teeth?
Instead
of "I am beautiful" or "I am ugly", would one think: "He finds me
beautiful", "She thinks I'm ugly"? Would any attempt to alter that
opinion involve, not examining oneself in a mirror, but changing one's
behavior with that person?
Of course, on the other side, if
the whole tribe agreed that you were ugly, you would find no
reassurance in the mirror. But, in those cases, we seldom find
reassurance there, anyway; we find confirmation. Even today, the mirror
is not so powerful as to entirely overcome the opinion of the tribe. At
least, not the punishing opinion.
We are still mirrors to one
another, even with glass hanging in every room; even with reflective
surfaces everywhere: shop windows, the burnished metal clothing of
modern buildings, the shiny bodies of cars. Still, we look at one
another and think: You are beautiful. You are smart. You are neurotic
as hell.
Sometimes, we transfer ourselves, our highest hopes,
our deepest fears, whole onto the face of another. We call this falling
in love. If you stand between two people who are doing this to one
another, you are likely to disappear altogether, in the brightness of
what they call love. You will vanish; you will become invisible.
Until you find someone who will accept, who will reflect, your own image.
But then, too, you disappear.
It
is possible to vanish into one's own reflection. It is possible to
become flat and thin and empty, like a filmed old looking glass;
nothing but clouded reflection.
Some scientists believe that
most other animals have no sense of self; that they exist only within
themselves, with no sense that they are themselves. They point to the
kitten that chases itself in the glass, thinking there is another
kitten there, until it tires of the pointless exercise and refuses to
be fooled again. They paint orange spots on the foreheads of
chimpanzees and elephants, and are amazed when the creature sees
itself; points to the orange on its own head; realizes it is looking at
itself.
Timothy's mother had a poodle, that, he swears,
knew itself in the mirror. It would come home from being fluffed and
ribboned and dyed and manicured, leap from its mistress' arms, and run
upstairs to the dressing room to admire itself in the mirror. It would
lift each front paw, and examine the nail polish in the reflection. It
would prance and pose.
Anyone who has lived with a poodle would believe this story.
But think -- most dogs return from the groomer and go to their human for admiration: Do you like me this way? Do you still love me? Am I cute?
What shift is it that moves us from seeking such validation from our companions, to seeking it in our reflections?
That poodle is no longer a dog.
Are we still human?
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