The Interior Decorator Who Saved Civilization
Sexy, hunky, gay Brazilian male models.
PFC readers may have noticed we’ve been dressing up our stories with pictures of them lately. I was not consulted on this editorial decision. Frankly, it’s crass and base and probably other adjectives that end in an “s” sound and connote bad behavior on our part. It also means additional page views for this blog, so I am all for it. In fact, this is a story about man’s body and what it represents in art and film. How’s that for selling out?
To begin our manflesh journey, we must first travel back in time to the days of the ancient Egyptians, makers of ugly statues. These folks were superstars when it comes to iconographic images: Pyramids. Sphinxes. Hieroglyphics. Gold sarcophagi. Seriously, no one rocks a gold sarcophagus like an ancient Egyptian. But their freestanding sculpture is a different story.
Representations of man in free-standing sculpture before the 5th century B.C.E. are far more interesting as archeological artifacts than as works of art. In essence, they are schematics of people rendered three dimensionally. I am so glad humans have evolved knees and elbows since then. It must have been tough building pyramids without joints.
That includes the Greeks and their Kouroi statues… arms to the side, feet flat, perfect posture, shit-eating grins. Then, as if by Olympian intervention, everything changed.
The first gay interior decorator was hired.
Let’s imagine a wealthy Greek merchant, Bill Gatsos, has built a new temple and wants to deck it out with statues and drapery, a home theater, maybe a rave in the basement. He hires a sculptor of statues to help feng shui the place. We’ll call him Phidias the Elder…
Gatsos: So I’m thinking a stiff-legged, soulless nude boy can go in that corner. Maybe a stiff-legged, soulless nude boy over by the steps. I could use a stiff… are you listening to me?
Phidias: I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know if I can do it anymore. This pose. It’s been, like, 3000 years of the same shit [sits]. It looks retarded.
Gatsos: Get it together, man. There’s no other way to represent the human bod-
They’re interrupted by a newly hired, flamboyantly gay interior decorator, Christopher Lowellos, who struts into the room, pointing this way and that, ordering his staff around like a diva. Paying his employer no mind, he turns his back to him, flips his wrist in the air, and puts all his weight on one leg.
Lowellos (to his assistants): No No No! I said whimsical, not kitschy!
Gatsos (chuckling): Maybe he’s a fruitcake but he’s… Phidias?
Phidias slowly rises, his mouth agape, as he is stares in sublime awe at the designer’s effeminate pose. His body tingles. When he grasps the magnitude of what is happening, he drops to the bench, shaking.
Gatsos: Uh. You all right?
Phidias (panting): I am going to radically change the course of western art for the next 2,500 years.
Gatsos: Um. Ok.
Thus was born the contrapposto stance, the most powerful innovation in the history of western art (other than money). By dipping one hip and activating the corresponding arm, Greek sculptors brought the human body to life at last. Thus is the genius of the Greeks. Their gyros aren’t bad either, though I can do without the grape leaves, or whatever that black/purple stuff is that looks like rotten lettuce.
It’s not unreasonable to think the image to the right is James Killough showing up for a AAA baseball game because he heard a couple of 20-year-old men were going to be there in the “catcher” position. But it’s actually the Riace Warrior, an amazing Greek bronze (circa 450 B.C.E.) made at the cusp of the high classic period.
This is a man’s body.
Forget those pumped-up pretty boys that accompany most of our articles. The ideal man’s body is lanky, with long arms, long legs, and a rectangular frame. Insignificant compared to the mighty mountains he must climb or the vast oceans he must cross, yet he does it all the same. This body type symbolizes mankind’s reach, which is why it appears in art and film so often.
John Wayne used it to perfection. His long-legged stride across the endless Texas plains, his slow pivot, and his six-shooter slung low on his hip all define man’s ability to survive in an impersonal, amoral universe. That’s why Dom Deluise was not asked to star in The Searchers. Fat guys don’t have that quality. Or short guys, for that matter. Can you picture Linda Hunt turning and walking off into the desert as the door closes at the iconic ending of that film? I’m almost certain the impact would be lessened.
If you make a movie or a show about a man against the world, you need a tall, lanky guy, not shirtless beefcake. Think of Michael Biehn in The Terminator (1984), who traveled back in time to save a woman he’d never met, but loved all the same. Strapping Josh Holloway, perfectly cast as Sawyer the cold-hearted loner in Lost, traveled back in time in search of a way to tie a bunch of impossible plot threads together, but failed all the same. Fellow Josh, Duhamel, another long and lean dude, hasn’t time traveled yet, but he’s got the build.
Duhamel may get his chance on July 1st, when he shakes his man body for all it’s worth in Transformers: Dark of the Moon, a poignant tale of how a British butler’s stoic devotion to his master during World War II may cost him his one chance at happiness, as he fights to suppress his love for… Hold on. That’s Remains of the Day. Transformers is about giant robots blowing shit up while Josh Duhamel leads an elite special ops team in search of the plot. Likewise, Holloway is co-starring with Tom Cruise (not lanky) in another franchise film, the recently wrapped and unfortunately named Mission Impossible – Ghost Protocol, due in December. The wait is killing you, isn’t it?
The heterosexual male reading this may feel uncomfortable with so much man talk, but I challenge you to open your mind. You can admire manliness without wanting to ride it like a bull. And I encourage all the gay men and straight women to understand the difference between me admiring manliness and me wanting to bat lefty from now on, which I don’t. Because, honestly, I’m not into the penis. Lesbians, Swiss painter Henry Fuseli, and I all think of the penis like this:
In fact, Fuseli was so disturbed by the penis that he painted several versions of this work, which he called The Nightmare. This one was done in 1782. The Nightmare is a much better title than The Penis, or The Repulsive Horse Head, don’t you think? Fuseli knew from artwork titles.
I won’t get into what curtains symbolize. Not in this post anyway. But you can probably guess.
We don’t always end our stories with images at Pure Film Creative, but I believe this is a special circumstance. I’ve embraced the shirtless men, figuratively. I’ve even written this story celebrating manflesh in all its power and glory (Straight eye for the queer guy?). Now I deserve some eye candy.
Therefore, I bring you my absolute favorite picture of Megan Fox in the whole wide crazy world. While she won’t be appearing alongside Josh Duhamel in the new Transformers flick, thanks to a much-publicized falling out with director Michael Bay, we will always have this photo to remember her by. And I don’t care how gay you are. Deep within your heart or soul or whatever you’ve got powering that hunky, Brazilian, male model body of yours, you must be thinking, “Even I’d hit that.”
What a bizarre romp through Art History.
Or should I say bizarre rump? ;)
BTW: Dolmades are better tasting than they look. But not as tasty as Baklava . . . or Spanokopita.
I used to get this rice and lentil thing from the Greek place near an old job I had. I miss those days sometimes.
There will be more bizarre art talk coming in the weeks ahead. Stay tuned…
I think it’s his best yet. But then again, I’m nothing less than bizarre.
JK and I are trying to convince Tuttle to shave his head too. Then we’re going to paint ourselves blue and take our act on the road.
Not even in jest! You have no idea how important Tuttle’s hair is. It’s not just important to him, it’s important in the sense of how a Christie’s catalogue might describe a major work of art.
The BMG has a permanent gig in Orlando . . . you could fill in for them on the days they wanted to hang out at theme parks. :D
My hair so only important insofar as I could crawl out of a ditch across town after a long night and it would still look this fabulous. BAM, bitches!
But about the article, it’s brilliant! It’s a shame that a French Orientalist was chosen over a Pre-Raphaelite for the opening picture but if that’s what it takes to re-establish your heterosexuality, then I’m all for it. I actually learned a thing or two, even though, I’m quite the art history buff. I’d really had no idea that the pyramids were built by people without knees, for instance.
Keep up the great work, Eric! Oh, and the inside story is that Megan Fox is kind of a bitch. Sorry.
Your hair is still important. You are blessed to have it. Have mercy on us poor bitches who look for any sign of a cold snap to cover the bald pate with an interesting cap.
I agree, I don’t know what Eric sees in Megan. I bet he wouldn’t last a martini with her. It must be a Jersey thing.
Eric Baker does not suffer from male-pattern baldness, as you might assume. He shaves his head. If you want to know why, just talk to him for 5 minutes. You will discover he is truly not hiding the embarrassment of hair loss. He merely idolizes Mr. Clean, an even more virile, smooth-headed, friendly man, if such a creature is possible. A bloke who is liked by everyone… except for the Jews, who fear him. Because he is goose-stepping Nazi bastard
It has been pretty evident that his Mr. Clean fetishism is the whole reason he worships me. I even have pierced ears.
That’s why the picture is good. It doesn’t talk back.
Mr. Tuttle, please accept my profoundest apologies for implying that your head should be shaved. It was an ill-advised attempt at humor and will never happen again. Furthermore, I shall fully comply with the court order and stay more than 100 yards from you at all times.
Hey! How do I get one of them court orders???
I’ve got a bible-toting, bible-thumping Christian stalking me and praying for me. It’s pretty friggin’ creepy. ;)
It’s a pain in the ass from what I understand, Nancy. You need to go to court and provide evidence. You should always treat insane people gently and with good humor, and don’t confront or engage him in any kind of rational discussion; his reality isn’t yours. He will go away if he all he gets is a kind smile and stick of gum.
So, I guess I should I stop poking at his archaic beliefs by relying on logic and reason? ;)
Correct, you should not. “Belief in God is a primary symptom of mental illness” — George Carlin. But you know that.
The idea of a personified God in a flowing beard watching over us from Heaven is a Fairy Tale for adults . . . designed to keep us in line (the same way Santa Claus keeps kids sorted out).
Nevertheless, I am satisfied that there is more to life than meets the eye ~ accessible through the still, silent voice within.
Carlin was being grossly hyperbolic for the sake of a memorable line. Just because you believe in God, doesn’t mean you are mentally ill. Seeing God or his emissaries, hearing his voice in burning bushes, meeting the Devil out in the desert, etcetera, are delusions and hallucinations, which are very real symptoms of schizophrenia. I cannot think of a saint, prophet or mortal demigod who didn’t have text-book symptoms of what we now consider to be one of the more extreme mental illnesses.
Life is scary and hard for everyone. Most of us were raised in some religious tradition or other, which is comforting to retreat into when the storms of circumstance batter us. I am perfectly happy standing out in the storm unprotected and accepting existence for what it is, confident that one day it will be explained, whether in my lifetime or not. Even though it can be a bitch, in the end, life is beautiful. And that’s enough for me.
I adored George Carlin’s observations ~ he shook people up with his irreverance and made them THINK.
I’ve lived my life as a “Christian” (Birth-10 ~ i.e., when I was too young to know better), Atheist (10-35), and now as someone who realizes a spiritual connection with something “in me but not of me.”
It’s a better path for me . . . looking within for answers, instead of listening to someone preaching from a pulpit.
See what kind of intellectual stimulation a nice pic of Ms. Fox fosters?
Megan offers so much to so many. ;)
To the esteemed Mr. Eric J. Baker :
“Old Ancestor,” in my unpretentious opinion, this is the finest illustration of your literary prowess hitherto. I find you erudite, clever, and side-splitting. I really look up to you as a writer. I have had no choice but to humble myself, ever since the time you publicly wrote that my blog articles,
Christopher Lowell whispered to me (yes, he is a close personal friend) “…when you see that Eric J. ‘Bitcher,’ you tell him that until he has done 5 separate episodes on The Holy Wood Squares, and until he has a line of desk accessories and furniture at Office Depot, he can wipe my ass with crushed velvet fabric samples…”
Oh, and I am supposed to be gesticulating magnificently while you read this…
Ditto. I’ve just been listening to Dame Bea rave about this post.
Too kind, all of you. Much appreciation to our host, Mr. Killough for permitting me a forum to share my thoughts.
Unlike you godless, liberal, secular, left wing Heathens, I found Jesus….
And he was dead. very very dead. Not in the tomb though, in the rubble rather, under that excavated brothel.