The Little Plastic Mermaid

 She was one of those people that was hard not to notice. Her hair was red and vibrant as fire, a perfect parallel to her vivid personality and mysterious quality of attraction. At only fifteen she seemed to understand what life what about, she seemed to know never to sacrifice herself in order to follow others. Ariel was the only natural color among all the others that were so composed, so chemical, and above all, so false. Or at least she seemed to be. What is behind a smile, behind so much attention? Especially when your Father is an oil magnate, and the world is at your feet. That is what was so impressive about her, her feet, although decorated with all sorts of expensive accessories, appeared to be planted firmly on the ground, no presumptions, no games.

            However, those of us who have sight are always the blindest. We refuse to see all the things that we do not want to. We deceive, and allow ourselves to be deceived. I cannot say with certainty if it was her or me who did not want to take off her mask, who let it go on for so long, who let it tear us apart. Regardless, to ruin the ending for you, her perfect life turned out to be like a movie, a montage of moments that show only a minimal fraction of the truth, a recollection of half fragments of reality. Just like her body, which became a mold, a direct embodiment of her fractured self, and a reflection of her insecurities, hardly noticeable, of course, being perfectly hidden behind all the blinding lights of glamour. What is the truth? The truth is that Ariel’s life was only hers in the sense that it was hers to sell. She sold it to the media, she told it to the surgeon who “fixed” the “tragedy” of her flat chest, she sold it to society, she sold it to anyone who was interested, but she sold it for one guy in particular. For Eric.

Eric is my older brother, six years older to be precise, and a complete ladies man. Not to say he did not find Ariel attractive, because I am sure he did, he just didn’t have commitment on his mind, and even less so with a fifteen year-old.

It all started when I invited her, my best friend at the time, to a party at my house. My parents weren’t going to be there so we could crash my brother’s party and hang out with the older kids and feel cool. The problem is, I got over that feeling, but apparently not everyone does. (I was Eric’s “little brother”, and not only that, “Eric’s little gay brother”. Can you imagine what it was like to grow up with a title like that? Anyways, I got over it whien I realized the world didn’t revolve around me, and that I could simply be, Sebastian, for myself, no acceptance needed.) Anyway, the point is that it was the first time Ariel met my celebrated, college student, athlete, and ridiculously handsome brother. Long story short, he got wasted. Not in the “haha, so much fun” wasted, but in the “way too much vodka” blackout wasted. At first it was all fun and games. “Hey man! Let’s do shots”, “Bro-shot”, “So glad to see you dude! Cheers!” and so on. It was at that point that the sloppy dancing began along to what they considered “oldies” but were more like 2009 Rihanna, and David Guetta back when he was still cool. It was somewhere along that time that I go lucky with a closeted friend of Eric’s, and it was during my absence that things really went down hill. I cannot with certainty say exactly what happened but rumor has it that some ex-girlfriend drama went down between Eric and his best bro, which ended up in them trying to (not very successfully and rather pathetically) trying to punch each other. It was the over-reacting screams of the girls at the party that made me come down from my business to find Ariel and Eric in the kitchen. Ariel, who did not drink on principle, or maybe because alcohol had too many calories, was making food and taking care of the poor drunkard who was half asleep on the table. In the moments he did wake, and in the lack of the ability to make coherent phrases, he simply stroked Ariel’s radiant hair and muttered what sounded something like “You’re beautiful”.

Eric of course does not remember this at all, but Ariel on the other hand, was somehow marked by this event. The next day, she radiated energy more than usual and her olive-green eyes were made up of pure excitement. “This is it”, she told me, “he’s the one I’ve been looking for.” I knew my brother too well not to know that he did this often, and that he was too aware of the effect he had on girls and of his own good looks. I gently and in different occasions tried to tell her this, but I also knew her, and though that maybe, just maybe, she might manage to catch is attention as she did mostly everyone else’s.

Convinced that all the boys our age, and even a couple years older where “too young for her, or too immature”, she obsessed about the day she and Eric would start going out. Although at the time, I did not think of it was an obsession at all, just one more thing on her to-to list of dreams that would be accomplished in the course of her incredible life of dedication and perseverance. I must admit I was even a little exited by the prospect of her becoming part of the family. However, this was around the same time I was coming to terms with myself, and I tried to share with her all the things I had read, the movies I had seen, or how terrible the news were and all the crimes that were happening around the world.

“A government is killing their own students and the government does not even acknowledge their responsibility in the matter! Is it not absurd that they are playing their people like that? Why are they avoiding what really needs to be talked about? Why don’t they care?” I told her with a distorted face and conflicted self. She would answer something in the lines of, “Well, but it’s so far away. Everyone has problems you know? The fact that they are not happening in ‘poor’ countries does not make them any less important. Plus, I’ve heard they are very aggressive people anyways. My uncle told me.”

Every time she only half-listened, and then found a way to turn the topic back to her, and not only her, her in a world where she was a poor martyr, a victim of society and of her parents who did not care about her enough. That was when I realized I was just an accessory she kept around for pure appearances, one more object, a convenient brick in the façade of her sad walls, someone to justify her drowning in a glass of water by saying, “Poor you”. In a way I’m sure she appreciated me because I was not another guy trying to get in her pants, nor another girl who was secretly jealous and waiting for a chance to “fuck her over” (in her words). However, I only existed in function of what she needed of me, and never as simply me. Ariel didn’t care for that. The only thing that was important was that she could see herself reflected in my eyes as what she wanted to be, an innocent and beautiful victim that needed to be saved by a prince.

I understand that all of us are obsessed with ourselves in a way, and we should be, because what surrounds us can only be experienced through the self, but there is a very important difference between that essential obsession, and the obsession of ourselves solely in the eyes and perception of others. A lot of years, and a lot of existential crises brought me to the conclusion that the most dangerous thing is to live for another, trying to please them, seeking that they somehow justify your actions, your existence. That is exactly what happened to Ariel, and it had been happening long before she met Eric, I just didn’t know it then. Appearances are a tricky business.

This was also around the same time that she started losing a lot of weight. She had always been skinny, and at the time I firmly believed and defended from any insinuators that it was because she had been ill. It was unquestionable. Plus, most people had always been jealous of her beauty, of her popularity, of the life she had in general. I felt like I was one of the only ones that really knew her beyond the Facebook pictures, beyond the Instagram fame, and beyond the rumors that were going around. No surprise, I was wrong, and I should have seen it before. It was right there in front of me, talking to me, asking things of me, crying and being consoled over and over again, without ever listening in return, without ever caring.

From what seemed to be one week to the next, Ariel did not only look like she was disappearing, but had an absolutely new pair of boobs that were paraded around as if it was Mardi Gras. She decided to debut them at my annual Halloween Party in a mermaid outfit that made every one in the room drip saliva on themselves. Undeniable, she looked amazing. How funny now to think that anorexic was our idea of amazing, and plastic surgery, not that I have anything against it, but when it is done for the wrong reasons… Months later I learned that the reason our beautiful rouge star had undergone the knife was because she had heard from someone that Eric’s ex-girlfriend had a C cup, so therefore, he must be a “boob-guy”, whatever that means. But then again, those might only be rumors. Even though, I wouldn’t be surprised.

To answer the real question here, no, Eric and Ariel never ended up together. Although they did make-out a few times, it was never serious, and Eric ended up getting together with his college best friend/gorgeous lit major (who by the way, wasn’t that gifted in the boobs department). As for Ariel, as far as I knew after high school she was doing “great”, “great” because she had every thing she wanted ranging from clothes, to boyfriends, to work contacts. Sadly, I got to know her too well during those months with Eric not to know all of that would never be enough to make her happy. All I saw was her misery and her unachievable struggle to please and pretend life was wonderful, even when it was not even close. In my opinion, it should have been. She had everything, but she had no idea how to put it into perspective, no idea how not to drown in the glass of water that was made up of all the stories she told herself. The world around her was crumbling, students dying, corrupt politicians, repressive governments, human rights violations, rape, war, none of it mattered or existed in her bubble.

The first time I saw her after graduation was at our 20-year reunion. The boobs had very evidently led to the ass, and the liposuction, and even botox by the age of thirty-five. Not too mention, rumors had it she had had several episodes of ending up in the hospital from malnutrition. She was still single of course, and not from a lack of attractiveness, but from a lack of self. Somehow, she was still celebrated as a role model, as the person everyone wanted to be, it seemed amazing just to know her and people took pride upon that fact. I hugged her tight, as if we had never grown apart, because I knew she would remain eternally empty, forever mournful of what she never had. If not she had realized what she needed was a self and not my brother. That was the last time I ever hugged her. It was last time I would ever see her. She was found dead months later in the tub of one of her mansions, passed-out and drowned by the aromatic foam of her bubble bath.

Works Cited for “The Little Mermaid”

 Very different moral and ending than original. Most recognized version. Has been controversial due to the argument that it teaches young girls that they should change/”sell their soul” for a man. Very vivid visually. Image of her red hair is very easily recognized (should be part of the adaptation).

Andersen, H. C. The Little Mermaid. Champaign, Ill.: Project Gutenberg, 199.

Original. Radically different outcome. A lot more obscure and gruesome than the popular Disney adapted animation. However, moral is better. Her tongue gets cut off, although she gets legs, whenever she steps it’s like she is stepping on needles (excruciating pain), does not end up marrying the prince but instead dissolves into ocean foam.

“Everything We Know about Sofia Coppola’s The Little Mermaid.” Dazed. Accessed November 13, 2014. http://www.dazeddigital.com/artsandculture/article/19323/1/everything-we-know-about-sofia-coppolas-the-little-mermaid-film-adaptation.

New adaptation of “The Little Mermaid” by Sofia Coppola. Should be very interesting in a modern context into which it is being taken into. Will very likely go back to a “much darker ending” that might be closer to Andersen’s original.

“Hans Christian Andersen : The Little Mermaid.” Hans Christian Andersen : The Little Mermaid. Accessed November 13, 2014. http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/register/info_e.html?vid=16.

A bit of history and context of the different editions of Andersen’s fairy tale. Explains dates, how it was later taken to the theater, etc.

Sheinbaum, Hilary. “Why My Kids Will Not Be Watching The Little Mermaid.” The Huffington Post. July 23, 2012. Accessed November 13, 2014. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/hilary-sheinbaum/the-little-mermaid_b_1694342.html.

Huffington Post article that strongly criticizes Disney’s adaptation of Ariel into someone who “changes herself for a partner of the opposite sex”, and for the fact that Eric would fall in love with her solely based on her looks completely disregarding who she is a person (thoughts, feeling, ideas). “The moral of the story lies here: change who you are — not simply to be loved, but also to be accepted by others. Additionally, it portrays men as physically judgmental, only caring about the way a woman looks…” As well as teaching us that being beautiful, having friends and family, and being a princess is not enough, one must become what they are clearly not, and it cannot be complete without a man (or Prince).

“The Little Mermaid.” Hans Christian Andersen:. Accessed November 9, 2014. http://hca.gilead.org.il/li_merma.html.

“The Little Mermaid: Disney vs Hans Christian Andersen.” Anastasiayiasemidmublog. Accessed November 10, 2014. http://anastasiayiasemidmublog.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/the-little-mermaid-disney-vs-hans-christian-andersen/.

Although a blog, it is a interesting a very valid comparison of the original Danish tale versus the Disney adaptation. Strong focus on personality aspects (vibrant vs. reserved, juvenile (coming of age) vs. femininity/chasing dreams, sense of individuality vs. dreams do come true (somehow)).

“The Moral of the Story.” Society and Culture:. Accessed November 10, 2014. http://www.vision.org/visionmedia/society-and-culture/moral-of-the-story/153.aspx.

“More significant than the changes themselves, however, is what the evolution of the fairy tale tells us about ourselves and our changing society.”Importance of moral of the tale as simplified, easily understood life lessons that help us reflect upon our actions and place in the society that surrounds us.

 

 

 VIGNETTES

I knew nothing of this place before visiting, but the name drew me in. It’s heavy with the memory of the original British city, yet has absolutely nothing to do with it. There is something thick in its connotations, in the fact that it is named after a place that it has little in common with except for the fact that sand and water meet. It comes across as a place for reflection, for reminiscence, for nostalgia. A place that was condemned to imitate something that it is not, that should be “like” something else. There is so much power in the word “like”. Why should something ever be “like” something else? It is a false parallel, a physical reflection for the human longing for repetition, for sameness, and stability. A stability that does not exist along that beach, that is as inconstant as the breaking of the waves on the shore. As Milan Kundera said, “therein lies the whole of man’s plight. Human time does not turn in a circle; it runs ahead in a straight line. That is why man cannot be happy: happiness is the longing for repetition.” Brighton Beach is further doomed because it not only carries the weight of the British, but has, over the years become a home away from home to the Russian community. “Welcome to Little Russia!” And, what happens then? Who claims Brighton Beach? What is Brighton Beach? Its very birth comes from a longing of “home”, and has not evolved into anything else but a sadder and more poetic manifestation of that longing.

 

Brighton Beach in my mind appears like a place where one goes to contemplate deeply. A place where one goes to get lost in the scenery, to either forget about their problems or try and remember what used to be good. It makes me think of sad days of reflection along the grey of a place where people go to heal heartbreak, or to embrace their loneliness and clear their mind. However, I’m sure good things do happen here; Family vacations, romantic getaways, evenings with friends. Yet, there is a nostalgia to it all, to the clash of times, of past and present as one, of idealization and reality, and of the physical manifestation of a state of mind. This happens in several levels, the two most essential ones being the tourists and the residents. The tragedy of the tourists lies not in the making of those happy memories, but in the cherishing and longing to keep them. For the residents, the tragedy is not as immediate, not as obviously desperate, but far more profound. The fact that a great part of these immigrants come from a broken past, came to this place not out of desire but out of terror, out of necessity, makes it all the more touchingly melancholic. It seems clear in the survival of the Russian language and culture that none of these people really wanted to leave their home, but were in one way or another forced to do so. They were separated from their family, people and traditions, brought to a land where nothing is the same. They attempted to make it the same, “Little Russia”. It’s entirely a physical manifestation of the mind, of idealization. Nostalgia is in their speech, in their shops, in their food. It is an attempt to re-create home, a community that is built on traditions that did not belong to this land, but now, in a way, do. Their experience is just as melancholic, just as beautifully devastating as those who go to Brighton Beach to try and remember, try to go back to a happiness that they will probably never find there again. The happiness they left is gone, stolen by the waves, buried deep in the sand, lost in time.

 

 

 

Brighton Beach is the result of the weight of memory, of the unexplainable inability to let go. There is some sort of expectation that by being there one might be transported in time, back to the to the time or place where there was happiness. It is a place of a contained misery and a common unhappiness that is not entirely tragic. It is a place built from hope, a form of coping almost, the embracing that there is no going back but without fully letting go. It is a sad, sad hope, yet a beautiful expression of memory an how it can form a physical place, and define lives. The shops and restaurants are magical in the sense that they achieve the purpose they were set out to do; To transport the visitor to a far away land, to Russia or Turkey, but far into the past as well. The ceilings are compulsively decorated with ribbons and baskets, and flowers, in a style that is somewhere between baroque and kitsch. There is not a single piece of concrete to be seen, modernity is hidden behind rows and rows and more rows of nuts, and candy, and coffee, and spices. Only the floor is left uncovered, yet still tiled to match the journey into an overwhelming past of colors and abundance. Caviar for $5 dollars is not a luxury simply because in the Old Land it never was, caviar for $5 dollars is the rule, a little overpriced even. The homeland that immigrants remember is the homeland that was translated into this beach, into what is the living abstracted memory of a memory, an extension of time into a different space.

 

Are we even in the United States? Welcome to Little Odessa, to Little Russia, the jewel of Eastern Europe. A bite of xachipuri is enough to transport one to Georgia, as is a refreshing sip of Baltika or a meat dumpling to take one to Russia or Ukraine. The motherland. How is it possible that it is so far away yet it feels so real? Also, what is with the name Brighton Beach? It is the only thing that breaks the enchanting spell of the journey to a place that is miles and miles away. Where is the so-called America? Did someone say New York? Isn’t that on the other side of the world? Having to speak English in the lack of any response skills in Russian was almost enough to create awareness of one’s geological standing, but still not quite. It was a marvelous journey, into an unknown land, a new culture, a land that has been manipulated and transformed into someone else’s vision, someone else’s expectation of how life should be like. It is a community, they are not immigrants, they are residents, this is their land, their vision, and their traditions. People know each other, they have things in common, they share the weight of longing, they hold on to it and pass it along. If it was not for this, having to speak English when spoken to in Russian would be a harsh awakening into reality, a raw realization that one is in fact, not in Russia. However, the interactions that take place here make it impossible for an outsider to be anything more than a tourist, making English simply part of the journey as a visitor into an unknown country, into “Little Russia”.

 

WORK IN PROGRESS

      

FINAL GUIDE BOOK

 

Gift Critique

 

 

GIFT MADE FOR ERIKA SHIBA

   

   

“THE EXHAUSTION OF MEMORY”

Memoir

 

FINAL MASK

 

PROCESS

 

 

CARDBOARD BRAINSTORMING