Amanda Filipacchi - The Unfortunate Importance of Beauty

This is not the first time he has seemed caring about my friends, which is something I really appreciate. He’s kind and gentle and strikes me as a genuinely good person. I’m particularly touched that he is concerned about Lily’s well-being, as she is the one I’m the most anxious about.

“I wonder if there’s anything anyone could do to help her snap out of it,” he says.

“If you get any ideas, let me know.” And then I remember he doesn’t have much imagination.

We move on to more pleasant topics. Peter is in no hurry to get off the phone. He seems to enjoy talking to me and getting to know me. But our conversation ends with no suggestion that we get together outside the group.

He probably can’t overcome his lack of attraction to my appearance.

“AN INTERVENTION,” PETER declares. That’s the idea he comes up with a few days after our conversation.

“Like for addicts?” I ask.

“Yes. Because that’s what she is. She’s addicted to a person.”

It’s true. The day after smashing her piano, Lily went right back to trying to beautify herself through her music. She worked on this impossible project not only on her home piano, but on her now ugly, naked piano at my apartment. Gone is the energy she was infused with when practicing on Jack and then on herself. She plays slow, melancholy pieces. Now that every reflective surface of the piano has been shattered, we’re afraid she’ll treat us as her mirrors and ask us for progress reports on her looks. The last thing we want is to have to say, “No, you don’t look any prettier yet.”

MY FRIENDS AND I decide to give Peter’s idea a shot. On the day of the planned intervention — the first Monday after Thanksgiving — Lily is sitting at her ugly naked piano, striving for the impossible, as usual. She thinks this is one of our regular Nights of Creation.

As a group, we approach Lily. I put my hand on her instrument and say, in a formal voice, “Lily, we would like to speak to you.”

“Yes?” she says, looking at me without stopping her playing.

“On the couch.”

“Really?”

I nod.

The music dwindles and stops. “What’s it about?”

“Come this way.”

She takes a seat on the couch. Peter and I sit on the ottoman cubes in front of her. The others sit on either side of her.

Peter will be making the speech. He told us in confidence that he prepared one, so we decided to let him be the main speaker, since the intervention was his idea. I hope it’ll be good.

Leaning toward Lily, his elbows resting on his knees in a casual pose, this is what he says to her: “You know, in my line of work, I’m out and about in the world a lot. I go to fancy dinner parties and I see women who dehumanize themselves, who treat themselves as though they’re pieces of meat. They objectify themselves. And as if that’s not bad enough, they don’t even do it for themselves, they usually do it for someone else: for a man. It’s really sad.”

“Okay,” Lily says, appearing uncertain as to what he’s getting at.

Peter remains silent, until she says, “And? What? You think I do that?”

“Only you know,” Peter answers.

“I don’t do that,” she says.

“These women see themselves as merchandise.” He pauses and looks at her meaningfully, letting his words sink in. “They get facelift upon facelift upon nose job upon cheekbone implant upon breast augmentation upon liposuction upon lip enhancement. It seems to me the only way these women are able to subject themselves to so many procedures is by viewing their bodies as nothing more than material possessions. Can you imagine how hard that must be on their spirits, to see themselves as nothing but meaningless, lowly objects? They may not realize it, but consistently thinking of the external appearance as both supremely important and also as an object whose uniqueness and differences are not valued or appreciated and must therefore be butchered and uniformized has got to wear the spirit down on some deep level.”

His words express how I feel so perfectly, they make me want to cry.

I have to admit I’m intrigued by him. And I’m starting to like him very much: for this speech, for his effort, for recognizing Lily has a problem, and for caring enough to do something about it. I like that he took the initiative on this, that despite knowing her less well than we do, he took a more forceful step than we have ever taken with her. He’s the first person outside of our group that I’ve been drawn to in a long time, since before Gabriel died.

Lily is listening to him very attentively. She appears genuinely interested. I think Peter is making progress, which is not surprising considering how persuasive his argument is.

“And it requires a lack of self-esteem, too,” Jack adds, “even though these women often try to claim the opposite. You know, they like to profess that it’s because they value themselves that they do all these cosmetic procedures. But that’s just spin.”

Peter continues: “What I’m getting at, Lily, is that you are such a beautiful person, intrinsically. You shouldn’t try to alter yourself to accommodate the tastes of a shallow prick who’s unworthy of you. You’re a great artist. Do you know how much I’d give to have even a fraction of your talent? This may sound corny to you, but my advice is love yourself and love the people who love you, not the others.”

I’m nodding in agreement. The others are, too.

The most thrilling part is that Lily is nodding, too. Peter’s words seem to be getting through. And I don’t think she’s just being polite.

Lily raises her index finger to interrupt Peter, and says, “Wow, you’re saying some very interesting stuff. You’re really helping me put things into focus. You’re so right on every front.”

“You see my point?” Peter says.

“Oh, God, totally!” she replies, getting up. “Can we continue this a bit later?”

“We haven’t finished!” I cry.

“I got the gist of it, though,” she says. “But please, keep talking. I can still listen.” She walks over to her piano, sits, and goes right back to playing — completely undeterred.

We stand around her piano. Through the filter of my frustration, her music is hell to my ears. “Why are you doing this?” I bark.

“Don’t mind me.”

In a whisper, I ask Peter if this is common, the alcoholic getting up in the middle of an intervention and going straight to the liquor cabinet.

“I’m sure it happens a lot,” Peter says.

I turn to Lily. “Have you even heard a word Peter said?”

“Yes, every word,” she replies, clearly reabsorbed in her playing. “And I will give it some serious thought.”

Jack says, “Lily, do you see that getting up in the middle of Peter’s talk is a symptom of your disease?”

She nods. “I’m sorry. But you know how it is… when the impulse takes you.”

“The impulse to what? Destroy your life?” Penelope pitches in.

“I can play and listen at the same time. I’m a good multitasker. You guys can keep talking to me, if you want.” But her eyes are downcast, and she doesn’t really seem to be listening to us.

We ask her to please stop and pay attention.

“I am!” she claims. She has an intense expression on her face — a look of deep concentration. But her gaze seems to be turned inward. As I speak to her, she nods mechanically while playing.

And then I stop talking. An unsettling sensation has quieted me.

Still nodding, she says, “Go on, I’m listening.”

But I don’t go on.

“You were saying?” she says.

I just gaze at her. Words are meaningless now.

Then she asks, “Has the cat got your tongue? I’m all ears, keep talking.”