I have come to the conclusion that my body is not, in fact, a wonderland, but it is a work of art.

Today the baby girl and I went to the National Art Gallery downtown to see the exhibit that’s on since it’s ending on Sunday. I don’t pretend to be a connoisseur of art. I don’t understand why some things are considered art, but there are a lot of pieces of art that I consider beautiful. I have a particular preference for artwork that takes something you wouldn’t normally consider nice looking and making them beautiful.

The baby girl and I walked through the Pop Life exhibit, which was all about people breaking out of the boundaries of what art was ‘supposed’ to be. After we finished our walk through we sat in the gallery garden for a bottle break and in the quiet I got the chance to think. And I started thinking about me.

I am made of ordinary materials, put together in an extraordinary way. My body is not exactly what is expected, but when you look at it from all angles, it’s beautiful. The scars, the stretch marks, that tattoos for specific times and places, all come together to create something that I can look at and appreciate, the same way I appreciate an Andy Warhol or a Pablo Picasso.

I remember when the gallery had a Picasso exhibit when I was a teenager and my family went to see it. In the middle of all the kids of paintings he was known for, I saw an early work. It wasn’t cubism, it was people, and all I could look at were the feet. To this day I remember how precise and beautiful the feet in that painting were. I came away with something totally unexpected.

Someone drawing or painting me would take care to include my stretch mark, the chicken pox scar, the hair on my arms. Because everything imperfect makes it more beautiful.

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