On Elegance
Tags: Reflections, Feminism, Self Love

The British actress Audrey Hepburn (Audrey Kathleen Ruston) looking at a cat leaning on her back in the film Breakfast at Tiffany’s. New York, 1961 (Photo by Mondadori via Getty Images)

For as long as I’ve known, I have an inclination toward a sense of elegance.

What constitutes elegance to me?

Audrey Hepburn’s Holiday Golightly singing with her ukelele on the fire escape of her NYC apartment late at night is elegant. Yuko Ichihara smoking from her pipe while teasing and consoling the dejected disciple is elegant. Michelle stepping downtown dressed in clashing colors and patterns with a pair of witchy sunglasses is elegant. Surveilling kitties on tall window edges are elegant. Pouring hot water into a french press in a plush bathrobe is elegant. Looking up from a book to notice the swallows singing outside only a few inches away is elegant. Closing my eyes and surrendering myself amongst a noisy crowd is elegant.

The list goes on.

I chase after these picturesque moments of grace. The more I chase, the further it escapes me. I thought maybe beauty is not meant to be possessed by a mortal. It only descends onto us upon her own will. It is a gift, not a trophy. It cannot be won.

My melancholy isn’t alone in history. There are many lines of poetry aim to capture the same feeling. It is, after all, a fleeing feeling.

Today, I am lucky enough to bathe in its halo. I feel like I don’t have to try hard to achieve anything today. The elegance flows through me. It brews with the jasmine tea and fills a tulip cup. It scribbles down reflections, memories, feelings, and hopes for the future. It speaks about trauma and healing to my loved one without judgment. It rhymes with the slow and jazzy beats of FKJ. It hides behind the cluttered desk that overflows with art supplies, water bottles, cat food, and cleaning wipes. It lingers in the air indefinitely and intoxicated me with every breath.

I wonder why it visits.

I wonder why it doesn’t.

Does it prance to the rhythm of the spring? Does it shy away from the presence of other mortals? Does it watch from afar? Does it scheme with the spirits of the wild? Does it reside deep into my heart?

Elegance strives with confidence and precision without a hurry; there is no need to rush, it is exactly where it needs to be, doing exactly what needs to be done. It lives in the very present moment. It does not ruminate. It does not extrapolate. It fears no past and no future.

In suitable witches raiment (and lovelier witches it would be hard to find), two sorcerers of Cypress Gardens switch from broomsticks to broomskiis (and this is not to say it is an invention of the Russians) to herald the dawn of Halloween. (Photo by Bettmann via Getty Images)

I feel its presence in every skater spin on an aerial hoop ten feet off the ground. I am one with it when I catch the ghost in the drumming heartbeat of house music. I forget about my mortal anxiety when I fully immerse myself into a working flow. I speak with its full power as I connect genuinely with a friend in a conversation.

If I stop chasing it, I stop running away from it. Everything changes and nothing changes. The paradox of life continues with my obsession with this feeling of elegance.

I wonder if I work to set up a system to nurture the presence of this feeling, will it stay and visit me more often? Or would it run away as I attempt to retain it?

Popular culture often associates this feeling with the french girl trope. The french girls care very little and assert themselves in their ways. Stoic, distant, unpredictable, unapologetic, and powerful. But after all, like every romanticizing characterization, it is not realistic and not very human. What is behind such a cool demeanor? How do they show compassion to others and themselves? What traits of humanities are we omitting from their characters? To whom do we cater such an image: for the male gaze or for young girls? I have become wary of such simplification of human portrayal as I grow older.

I still wish to learn and adopt the goods of the French girl attitude. I want to be assertive. I want to be compassionate and mysterious. I want to be unapologetically myself. I want to empower myself through my expressions in writing, art, philosophy, engineering, and more. I want to dress stylishly. I want to love myself: my strengths, my weaknesses, my trauma, my perseverance, and my certain death. All of myself. Without judgment. Without doubt.

I can see the elegance in my life when I adapt the viewpoint of a third person as if they are the narrator of my life story in a movie. They peek through the window to watch me pour my first cup of morning tea. They watch me slowly stroke the fur of my sleeping companion. They blink as I take breaths between each pose of my sun worship.

As I come up from my final bow, I thought to myself: “I am grateful for every peaceful moment.”