Winged Victory

I'll confess, I thought long and hard about whether I wanted to participate in this Challenge. I'm not much of a sharer of the deep, personal parts of myself. At least, not on the internet, where your digital footprint will follow you even after death. (Morbid, sorry, hang in there)

I know what some might be thinking. Peeling back layers doesn't always have to mean revealing the vulnerable pieces of ourselves, and I agree. I'm not afraid of how my story might be interpreted. I know my truth.

In fact, I debated writing about my years as a dancer and how it was my first form of storytelling. I'd share how I once used to color the stage through the art of profound movements, and you might hear a sorrowful ode of longing about how that's not who I am anymore. You wouldn't be wrong.

But I didn't want to do that. It might be one aspect of my identity that I've grappled with, only I didn't feel like it expressed enough of my frame of thought on the subject, and that's what Vocal wants to see in this challenge. Right? Okay, well, I'll do my best to fulfill that expectation, except I'm going to do things a little differently and hope Vocal accepts it.

I'm going to tell you how I still grapple with the elements of my identity. But first, let me briefly introduce the Winged Victory of Samothrace. (She's relevant, I promise)

For those who don't know who Winged Victory is, she's one of the most revered pieces of Hellenistic Greek art in existence. She's an extraordinary figure who's been on display at the Louvre in Paris since the 1800s, but she was actually found on the island of Samothrace, off the coast of Greece. I learned about her many years ago in an Art History class in college, and she's been a role model of mine ever since.

As you can see from the picture, she's a winged female figure without a head or arms. Because of this, it's difficult to get a clear sense of her character, yet from her stance, it's apparent she's about to take flight.

A little background on her; she's a symbol of victory and freedom, heralding triumph and hope, which is why she's placed at the top of a stairwell and looking above the viewer. People who climb the steps are "climbing the stairway to victory". What a magical concept!

There's more to her than that, but I'll let you explore that on your own. I'll leave you with this thought: What do you see when you look at her?

Obviously, the statue didn't put herself there, and I bet her significance wouldn't be as grand if she was just placed within an alcove somewhere, forgotten and unnoticed. So how does that relate to me?

*Inhales deeply*

Recently, I read a quote that said "art is supposed to outlive its artist." I believe this concept holds with identity as well. You'll understand why at the end.

I've used Winged Victory as an example because I'm a strong believer that identity isn't found in a single defining characteristic, but rather a combination of qualities (much like art). As the expression goes- the devil is in the details. The most (arguably) powerful facet about her is that she doesn't tell her own story. She lets her environment, her posture, and her craftsmanship speak for her.

When you look at me, what do you see? Easy. Whatever I show you. I know it's a bit cheesy to say, but that's the beauty of it. I don't have to define myself in one way. I let my actions, my passions, my appearance, and my hobbies speak for me. Since these things constantly change over time, so does my identity, which I have to learn to accept. I might love who I am now, but that doesn't mean I'll be this person in a decade. Just like how a decade ago, I used to be a dancer, seven years ago, a Haunt Coordinator who designed horror mazes. Or even just three years ago, I was a Zoologist. Now, I'm a writer. Would I have traded dance for everything I achieved?

I'm going to be very honest, no, I wouldn't have. It was more than a hobby for me- it was the very essence of my being, the clay that shaped my structure. But I didn't get a say on the matter- life chose for me, and I've accepted that.

I bet a few have noticed that when I do share some of my personal stories, I tend to write and talk in a very detached manner. I speak from a very emotional distance. When I tell people about my history, I narrate it objectively. Like I'm an observer. Like I don't own the rights to my own life.

Strange? I think so. Sad? Don't be so analytical. The truth is, I feel more comfortable talking about myself when I'm not looking at it as my story. How can I when I'm not that person anymore?

That being said, I'm constantly grappling with my identity. That's because I'm not a statue; my elements are always changing. But if there's one thing I've learned from Winged Victory, it's that we're all pieces of art, brought to life by our backgrounds, existing in a space where we don't have to define ourselves verbally. She taught me to embrace my edges and not be the viewer looking up, but the figure people climb to.

In short: identity isn't in a singular statement. It's an amalgamation of details in our craftsmanship and leaves a lasting impression on others that'll remain long after we're gone.

As for myself, I might not be a dancer anymore, but I'll always have the posture of one. I'll always find my feet turned out and my shoulders pulled back. My past will forever be etched into who I am.

In the end, we're all Winged Victories, with history in our artistry. Don't be afraid to show off your craftsmanship, for it's something to be revered.