Plastered

Plaster is my medium of choice. Its purpose is a means-to-an-end of replication. Yet, when left in its rough, primitive state- as I like to leave it- its reflection is seldom right on the money: never perfect nor does it need to be. I love to plaster my friends and other women’s bodies. What was once a frivolous, fun craft to do in an afternoon has now become a sort-of cosmic healing journey to self-empowerment. I find the most immense amount of joy empowering other women using my plaster-craft as a body-positive celebration.

Mold-making is a lot like life: a multi-step process. First the initial mold must be created. The rolls of plaster must be cut into strips and while that's in process, I have the model (usually friends or friends of friends) use olive or coconut oil on their skin: this prevents the finished mold from sticking to any body hair during cast removal. After that, I fill a bowl with warm water, submerge one plaster strip at a time, and away we go!

It takes thirty or so minutes to create the initial mold. Plaster strips dry rather quickly so it's vital to keep a swift pace, faster than the curing time, in order to create a useable base layer for later sculpting. During this time, when I am making a mold of another person: we talk.

Usually women who wish to mold their breasts or bodies have a certain relationship with it. Some toy with the idea, think it over for months, then call me up and say, “Hey, yeah, so we can we do my boobs?” Others are gung-ho from the get-go. I’m not all that sure why women wish to create a cast of their bodies, nor am I entirely certain why I was lucky enough to be inspired to begin such a project five years ago. However, it’s been a constant theme and safe place to land, for myself and many others, in all that time. The experience is consistently grounding and humbling. I suspect that must have something to do with it.

After the initial mold is created, that thirty-minute session is over, leaving me to my own devices in sculpting from there on out. During the session, I absorb as much as I can from the impressionable energy of the woman before me. What they choose to discuss; their opinions of their own body; their relationship with their own body. Often times, the woman in position of "moldee" are in the midst of a body-love-awakening and wish to celebrate. Or they have never been comfortable with such a thing and wish to step out of their comfort zone.

No matter the reason, I’m happy to help and to listen. The stories and experiences discussed certainly go into what the final sculpture is to become if in fact it makes it that far. Some stay plain forever, in their raw, unfinished form while others are entirely polished and painted, ready for the mantle.

More often than not I am content with half-“finished” pieces because well, the human body is never finished; not while it’s still alive anyway. The unfinished, rough-looking busts are as beautiful as the “complete” ones. A little rough around some edges, a few bumps and bruises, perfect imperfection is just my way of paying homage to the natural process of mother nature: significant and purposeful in all its stages.

The female form with its magical, downright mystical connection with mystery and creativity, is a powerhouse. A sophisticated system with the power to heal itself which means: it constantly needs to change. Transforming itself in minute fashion day-by-day. More obvious morphing throughout the month. And then as the years go by.

Being a woman today or any day, in any era, is a wild ride. It is cosmic. And its celebration for that epic task of simply existing is well overdue. Conversations of the opposite often plague the lips of the souls existing in these super-systems. With the intermingled theme of anger, disappointment, defeat, or worse: self-hatred.

“Where is this coming from?” I ask myself, devastated. Does it truly stem from not matching the woman on the cover of a magazine? Or on the silver screen? Is that the causal culprit that send women into a terrible tailspin of self-loathing?

Some even go as far as, deeming another woman more desirable than themselves. Negating the truth of their own beauty. It became apparent to me that these women were all in possession of invisibility cloaks and fun-house mirrors. Not-so-fun tools of distortion at play, completely hiding the blatant and intrinsic fact of their beauty bestowed upon them simply by being a woman.

Okay, you caught me. I would be a liar if I said I’ve never plunged into these pitfalls. I would be an even bigger liar if I said, I don’t still trip into these traps. Self-loathing is like an active land-mine. One wrong step or scroll too far and PLOP! I find myself in a familiar trench encroaching upon my own self-love.

One month, may breasts grew two cup sizes -and not from the joy of a possible pregnancy. My newly voluptuous bosom blossomed from the beer, bread, and cheese boards I had indulged in the few months prior. I could hardly believe the body I was in. The scale in my bathroom, along with now-ill-fitting favorite bras, were the truth-tellers of the reality I found myself. Truth tends to be a tough pill to swallow so I hid it under my tongue.

Like many who don’t take their medicine, my condition grew undesirable and out of control. The beer, the bread, the cheese boards: once so lovely, oh, how I loved them dearly. But now, they were ruined! Pure joy that once came from indulgement was now replaced with its nasty evil twin: Guilt.

The truth-telling -or dare I say, truth-bending- Scale called upon me for more frequent visits after that. She was never all that kind either. More visits and nothing nice to say, you do the math; I bet you’re better at it than her.

As one might look upon pictures of their youth, reminiscing on a time before crow’s feet and children, I too found myself, in the depths of my wallowing, longing for the validation of days-gone-by. There, on a shelf in the craft room, perky as ever, sat an immortalized mold of my old bust line. Spray-painted chrome. Little nipples sparkling with rainbow glitter. If the truth-tellers ever needed assistance, this shiny spectacle would be their first recruit.

Naturally, I held the disco diaphragm up to my current situation. It felt like a mask hiding how much I’ve morphed. So, I did what anyone who is me would do. I immortalized the significantly larger jugs.

The proof is in the plaster. As I looked upon both versions of myself, side by side, I laughed at something a friend of mine said one night. We were a few beers in, and she was cutting what was left of the baguette so we could finish off the rest of the charcuterie.

It was a simple and silly remark that, for some reason, remained readied in my subconscious, only to return again at the exact moment I was supposed to judge myself in body contest.

Both molds are versions of the same suit. A physical representation of who I was at the time of rainbow-glitter and the other one. Between the two, lived all the moments, memories, and miscellaneous mischief that went into creating Me 2.0: Voluptuous Edition. From one form to the next, lived a lot of food and a lot of drink. But also: long nights and great conversation, outrageous laughter and dancing, so much dancing. It’s the stuff of cherished memories. How could I ever hate myself for such a thing?

The truth became completely clear: I change. My breasts and body will continue to change. Back-and-forth, up and down. I won’t always look like sparkle boobs, nor do I wish to always be sparkle-boobs. My Voluptuous Edition may emerge from the vault here and there, and she’s fun so that’s fine with me. And just like that, I took a swig of beer and swallowed that once-terrifying truth pill still hid beneath my tongue. I allowed its medicinal elixir to work its magic and shred the attachment to the static ideal of what I was to look like.

A friend of mine lived with me for six months during an ultimately chaotic time in her life. From career, to friendships, to health and family: everything within her world was in demolition, heading toward ruin- you know, those seasons that tend to stalk you in your mid-twenties.

Withering was her body’s way of communicating the utter stress that existed within her. She would say, “I am too thin! None of my jeans fit me anymore!” She was losing weight quickly, daily. It was impossible for her to keep any sliver of a pound on when food cravings weren’t conducive to weight-gain and life kept piling on at every turn without a break, without a steak.

On a particularly sunny day, we sat on the patio as I plaster casted her body. I thought she looked great, healthy, although I knew what was weighing on her heart. That day, we made a marker. Her body mold signified the existence of a demonstrously difficult and specific period of her life. Since that day, fast forward years later: She's started her own business, cut out toxic friendships, and managed to relieve herself from all negative health matters.

When she looks back on her mold, and that time in her life, she laughs. Laughing because she is ok. She did it. She made it through. That body of hers, the one that was ‘too thin’ and stopped working right: it was preparing her for something else. That body was serving a purpose. It was doing its best to get her to this next phase of her life, the next version of herself.

I’m not sure why this particular project brings me so much joy but, it does. To be able to be there for other women and have the opportunity to use my creativity to help them feel beautiful about themselves and even laugh at themselves. We can get so caught up in ideals and expectations that these moments, that are already on their way out, get overlooked without their worth being recognized as a part of the process.

It is one of those projects that keep you in the here-and-now, on multiple levels. They’re not pieces that go up for sale or get auctioned, therefore the idea of expectation is then twice removed, making it feel free. It’s private and these pieces usually become gifts for the rightful bust-line owners or remain in my collection, which I cherish along with all the memories that come with them.

Who knows, perhaps one day I will have a show of a thousand bust-lines and bums- that would be an epic room to enter into. For now, it feels better-than-good to carve out a corner in my world for women and friends to come, and where they can feel empowered, and cultivate self-love by celebrating themselves for exactly who they are, today, because it will certainly be different tomorrow.