"Nothing is more exotic than the world around us, nothing more fantastical than Sachlichkeit." Egon Erwin Kisch, Der Rasende Reporter, (1924.) 1.
Paraphilia is sexual deviation or perversion. Paraphilia includes fantasy, behavior, or sexual urges fixated on objects, activities, or situations. One kind of paraphilia is form fetishism, as opposed to model fetishism. It is the "model" of the form fetish that intrigues me this dull day. It is "The Real" as part transformed and represented as the whole that intrigues me, the reissuing of the being itself as not the being, as the presentation behind which hides the unreal, undeveloped real.
In the world of publicity one must be seen to be known as attractive enough to warrant a mate. In the state of privacy everyone can be Dag. And then there is the compromise, the twilight zone of form fetish and the elaborate dissolution of privacy in a mock publicity.
From sacerdotal profanities to the sacred anecdotal, our magic rites become private form fetishes of publicity, of death and decay for sport and profit. To make a plain example: A fat girl works as a stripper in a tavern. She is the comedy act. She takes off her clothes in a semi-public place and makes jokes about her appearance and her sex life. People laugh at her jokes while they are sickened by her bodily appearance. In the audience is a young man in shiny jack-boots, a long black leather trench coat, and a black eye-patch. In the audience are others who look like they have spent days preparing their elaborate costumes for their hour upon this stage they'll never reach. Take your pick, any costume will do. Try to be respectful because this is, after all, a church, and the congregants are taking communion.
The form fetishist needs for his needs the objective form in hand, as it were. He needs, not the person, but the person as part of the person in hand, i.e. a thing to hold and think on, a boot, for example, perhaps with a person inside it. The wearer? "I am a shiny boot!" Look at that worm squirm. That part stands for the whole, and the communion of believers accept it in the flesh. The part is the whole. Magnificat anima mea Dominum.
'What seems to be me is not me. I am a Sorites Paradox before you.'
The Sorites Paradox of The Parable of the Hooded Man goes thus: 'Do you know your father? Yes. Is that him? Yes. No, it is a man in a hood who looks from a distance like your father.'
Some people dress up and pretend they are what they wear, and that attracts perhaps those who are attracted to the object, the thing worn and the thing wearing. "Oh, object of my heart's desire, I've longed to pretend on you for an age!' Doing it alone, not so cool. Stepping out of the shower and looking in the mirror, maybe not good at all. So, the tattoos. The focus, the deflection. The object of magic that transforms one into a part representing the whole. They pretend they are what they look like in part.
This idea. This issue. This ideology. This piece of chatter picked up from the internet. This blah-blah. This Palestinians. This I hate the Israelis. This Save the Poor. This yaya.
I'm sometimes stricken by the pornographic presentation of the people I meet. They do it to themselves in the hope I'll be deceived by the Sorites Paradox of the tattooed fat girl. No, that doesn't work very often. I usually see a tattooed fat girl. Silly me, I take the person as the whole person, even if they demand that I reduce them to the deflection. When people want to be attractive to others and find they just aren't, some find compensatory tactics to make themselves happier than they might otherwise be if shut out from the communion of lost souls. I don't care. Some are genuine fetishists who do as they do because it's what they do. I don't care. Don't sit on my couch, don't join my communion. Find your own and do as you will. Don't expect me to pretend with you.
Some people are so fragile they cannot stand to be seen as they are, for otherwise they would break into shards and splinters. I can't help it. I don't even care. I don't even pretend to. And some are so desperate for attention that they intrude into the publicity they so much fear: they become models in the eternal world of photographs, the dead undying. Some display themselves in our shared publicity as an image representing their wholeness, as if we are fooled. The image lasts, and the part and the whole remain private anyway. All that remains is evidence of a fake.
Some people are into diapers, and what can you say? Some demand the rest of us play the same game or suffer. I'm not that likely to reduce myself to the part. I'm not that into being a pornographic model of someone else's need for form. Some are. Auto-metonumia isn't for me.
Magnificat anima mea Dominum.
It's simple: some people can't figure out how to attract a mate, and they get lonely. They try something to make themselves presentable while still reserving the right not to be criticized for who they are. It don't work. The person is still the whole person, good, bad or ugly. No tattoos, no nothing makes the difference. Some are strange, and so what? But those who make themselves diminished, that has less than appeal. And such is much of our modern Western world. I see it for what it is, and it's increasingly fetishistic and phony.
Stop doing that to my leg.
1. From Frederick J. Schwartz, "Form Follows Fetish: Adolph Behne and the Problem of Sachlichkeit," Oxford Journal of Art. Oxford: Oxford University Press; 1998; v.21, n.2, p. 47.