Mannequins

I wonder if mannequin makers feel suffocated under the weight of censorship. Mannequins are strange beings. Highly detailed in face, expression and muscular tone, yet curiously smooth in crotch and breast. To our religious leaders, mannequins probably represent the ideal human form : Uniform in nature, obedient to the point of subservience and a refreshing lack of pretty orifices or projections that could be used for ungodly pleasure-seeking purposes.

I pity the young mannequin builder, fresh out of mannequin-building school, who's been itching for a chance to showcase his skills to an appreciative world. But just as he is about to sculpt a voluptuous nipple onto the breast of his work, his manager rushes in and though bent and clutching his knees in exhaustion, manages to blurt out the words, "What.....the....fuck.....are...you...doing? Don't make her look so realistic."

Most mannequin makers, I am sure, will learn to squash their artistic impulse through the passage of time and the slow demise of creative brilliance that usually occurs at a 9 to 5 job. But surely there must still be a few out there, rebels who ache to let their fingers flow free, to breathe life into their work, to be true to their inner perfectionist by adding a labial fold here, a scrotal wrinkle there.

I hope they exist. And I hope they bring their yearnings to fruition. My dream is that someday, there will be a moment when a slight whiff of breeze lifts the skirts of a mannequin in a department store, causing a collective gasp of horror from everybody present. But as for me, I will stand up and clap. I will applaud the courage of the renegade artist who refused to let his art wither and die in the face of squeamish society.

I will applaud you, sir. And I will continue to applaud till they escort me out.