They say women are artists in their own right.
Despite the significant lack of clear talent with a paintbrush, the female species seems to have been gifted with the ability to paint the picture of their choice: the portrait of an ideal man: their ideal man.
Just as artists evolved their works, from the simplest to the most complicated of modern art, women do the same. They all begin, just as artists do, with a blank canvass. Unaware of the world with love, they see it as two parents, thus sketching child-like imagery of two staunch, yet gentle figures. Soon, the figures evolve, turning into a single, tall, hunched form. A face follows, with silky, auburn locks and mesmerizing hazel eyes.
The smile takes on an almost childish look, though the eyes are true beauty, or in this case, a further sign of handsomeness that enraptures every woman. And then, it changes. The once childish face takes on a mature, angular form; the body grows, gaining a significant amount of once absent muscle. The smile matures as well, turning into something even brighter than before. Ahh, the beauty of ageing.
Just when the portrait seems to be… ‘perfect’ fierce tears signal heartbreak. No… No… he may have been captain of the basketball team, but no… a slimmer, prettier form appears beside, her slithery arms wrapped against his firm waist. This unflattering picture finds itself in the trash.
Soon, the photo morphs just as quickly as the seasons, changing at an almost alarming pace, the quest for ‘perfection’ completely forgotten as confusion takes over, creating something even harder to fathom than reality itself.
It’s as though our artist has taken a trip around the world, a trip that has yet to end.
The portrait first begins as a muscular, tall, yellow-skinned man, with small, yet piercing eyes and tall hair… and just like before, it ends up in the trash, and then slowly morphs… the skin turns a somewhat caramel-mocha color, and the man shortens. He gains an unexpectedly ‘fit’ body and a priceless MasterCard smile. Ahh, yes… could he be the one? Then, a ring pops onto his finger, just like magic.
The Italian man then changes once more, regaining the lost height and losing the mocha skin. He gains an aura of refinement, a somewhat natural poise some would only find in women. His voice, despite being unheard, is deemed as perfect as he is. Clad in handsome suits and formal work clothes, he is the picture of an ideal husband. And yet, there he goes… up into an airplane, and far away home.
Just as it seems the portrait could never be drawn perfectly, just as it seems no hope is there for it ever to become as it should be, the portrait draws itself. An invisible hand masterfully, yet slowly sketches a portrait.
In the end, the woman looks up at that photo, realizing then that it has not been sketched by her own hand. She examines it with a critical eye, noting every single ‘imperfection’ that she finds. Yet, in the end, she smiles.
It comes to life just as she stares straight into the eyes of the man in the picture. He soon comes to life somewhat magically, yet nothing seems new. It’s as if he has been there forever, though sometimes… that isn’t necessarily the case.
The man in the photo takes your hand and smiles. You smile back, knowing full well that fate has chosen him for you… and you have chosen him as well for yourself.