Sean Darby and the Maze of Mirrors

I am at the circus, watching a man trap himself in the maze of mirrors. Which mirrors tell the truth? Which ones lie? Do any of them? Do all of them? Lingering before each reflection, he poses. A portrait for each flaw. Overwhelmed by self-deprecation he contorts to exploit his every imperfection. His audience cringes as the folds of flab, sagging wrinkles, unwanted hairs and blemishes overpower the scene. He distorts his appendages, his feet, his nose, the curve of his spine. The room spins with the voyeuristic parade of hideous self-portraits. They confront him. They confront us. Begging to be challenged, or verified, accepted, or rejected. The bulging belly, rippling wrinkles, and drooping eyelids enchant me as I marvel in the splendor of their ugliness. The physical response of repulsion jolts me with excitement. To be marvelous is to reveal beauty in the grotesque.