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Portrait of missing person thinking she’s not missing

In her book “The Missing person guide to love”, Susanna Jones described with talent, the soul of a missing person. Astonishing.

“Portrait of Cynthia Feliks, the One rejecting rescue”. Alice Odilon. Copyrights. 2009

 

Portrait of Patricia Johnson: Missing person from Vancouver Downtown. Alice Odilon. Copyrights 2009.

 

Susanna Jones excels to describe the loneliness of a runaway person.

Alice Odilon. 8/08/2011

The androgynous doll tempted by anorexia

I think it happened in winter, in January, in this strange city where I lived every night in my realistic dreams.

A few dozen meters from the Akanian tower, a small Parisian café had imposed it’s tables and crowd, amongst whom I easily recognized Flower Doll with her cape of white petals, the Ragdoll cat, playing Lolita behind her huge dark glasses, hiding those round blue eyes, too blue, so deep.

Seated below, I identified without hesitation, despite her new falling beret, also white, Little Akan, concerned about the beauty of her skin, which was protected from the sun with her new immaculate hat.

She also wore large dark glasses to avoid the assault of UV on the outline of her huge eyes.

Syndra Raynaud, “the amputated hand”, was smoking an American vanilla flavoured cigarette, her long fingers stretched languidly, leaning against the arm of the little Akan.

She seemed to have forgotten her “owner”, the doll thief amputated by Iranian militia.

That she had still not shown the tip of her arm.

Betsy Mac Call alone failed to “rendez-vous” on the terrace; immensely tired, she had fallen asleep on the 32nd floor of the tower, after running some 40 km the day before for: “The anorexic Paper Doll Charity ‘.

- “Crikey!” Cried the flower doll (usually dumb and blind), watching the arrival of a hesitant creature deliciously chiseled on the other side of Avenue A.

- “She is naked, her head is bare. So thin and so beautiful!”


“The androgynous Doll”. Self-portrait 1984. Alice Odilon copyright.


“Her breasts are almost non-existent; pointed like sand dunes”, muttered a man sitting next to a jealous pinup.

“She is so white, so long, so tense!”

Continued an ugly young woman with blotchy skin and short brown hair, sitting at a table nearby.

- “What a special way of walking! What naive elegance!”

Dazed, Syndra Raynaud’s fingers stretched towards the sky.

“Look! Her icy eyes turned up, as if this doll of indeterminate sex had experienced a sexual orgasm”.

Added the severed hand, suddenly animated by an all invasive excitement.

- “She seems hungry, from afar I see her hunger, and her denial of hunger to be beautiful, independent, and rebellious.”

Cried the Rag doll cat sitting next to Flower doll.

- “It seems she wants to escape her shadow.”

- “What strange concern can be read on her face!”

- “Yes, she seems terrified by something which cannot be seen, which can’t be told!” added an alert Akan.

- “Those transparent eyes, it’s terribly disturbing!” purred the cat!

- “Such confusion in her transparent gaze, such a disappointment! What a poor doll!” Exclaimed the waiter, pale with fatigue.

The hesitant creature approached quietly with a broken gait like a puppet.

The rigidity of her limbs prevented a smooth movement and resulted in jerky rhythms, surprising, disturbing and yet at the same time very attractive.

No one could take their eyes off this doll stiffened and annihilated by the absence of any identity.

It was nice to see that she belonged neither to the masculine gender, by the way she carried her head and the smoothness of her skin mottled with cold, or by the length of her black lashes caressing the light of night, nor by the feminine gender with her allure of a teenage boy.

Akan imagined her as the leftover of some pleasure, prostitute, frustrated transsexual, slave god offered to violence and dejection of a fat community of power and lies.

Her body seemed that of Apollo emaciated by the desire to be a woman.

This appearance, terribly childlike and lost like a prostitute or doll, sometimes disappeared into the light, if one considered her arm and the acute angulation of her legs.

Nothing like a woman, rather a young man and yet neither one nor the other!

A thin young woman exposed to all for sale!

Tattooed, burnt by cigarettes, an androgen with all body hair removed for the scene and enjoyment of the Illuminati.

(The object of the hidden desires of these gentlemen of power, concealing their indomitable homosexual and predatory impulses.)

- A castrated angel like a lost, dirty, vagrant fairy.

Virility and vulnerability combined with the forces projecting from her skin so close to the bone.

Her thinness was no more; her skeleton was all, her attitude replaced her missing flesh.

At the same time, this lack of everything, inspired a savage sexuality to anyone who was looking: a fantasy of rape, of chains, of slaps and final possession of this body devoid of possessions.

She looked so embarrassed to live her character, this aristocratic carcass.

Blinded by fear, she felt suddenly stared at by these people gathered together on the terraces.

She gave a vitreous glance, opalescent and clear, cruel and tender at the same time.

As if to say: “I want to disappear but I want to be subjected to your criminal desire to rape me.”

Her brilliant ‘self’ took refuge in her magnificent eyes, that were impossibly beautiful , and her erectile skeleton, which would eventually fall to ashes.

Akan was eager to invite her to sit among her friends.

But was it humane to ask someone who was so hungry to join those who live?

Alice ODILON/ translated with help from David. January 2011.

The Doll “Isee” and the androgyn temptation of anorexia

Je crois que cela se passait en Hiver, en janvier, dans cette ville inconnue, où je vivais chaque nuit dans mes rêves acérés.

A quelques dizaine de mètres de la tour akanienne, un petit café parisien avait imposé ses tables et badots, parmi lesquels je reconnus aisément Flower Doll avec sa capeline de pétales blanches, le Ragdoll cat, jouant à Lolita derrière ses immenses lunettes noires, dissimulant le bleu trop bleu de ses yeux ronds.
Assise plus loin, j’identifiais sans hésitations, malgré ce nouveau béret tombant, blanc également, la petite Akan, soucieuse de la beauté de sa peau et qui barrait le soleil grâce à sa nouvelle coiffure immaculée.
Elle aussi portait de larges lunettes noires pour éviter l’assaut des rayons UV sur le contour de ses yeux immenses.
Syndra Raynaud, “La Main coupée” fumait une cigarette blonde vanillée, les doigts longs étirés langoureusement, appuyée contre le bras de la Petite Akan.

Elle semblait avoir oublié sa “propriétaire”, la poupée voleuse amputée par les milices Iranniennes.

Qui, elle, n’avait toujours pas montré le bout de son bras.

Betsy Mac Call, seule, manquait à ce rendez-vous en terrasse; tombée de fatigue, immergée dans une sieste platiforme au 32 étage de la tour, après avoir couru quelques 40 km la veille pour: “The anorexic paper doll Charity”.

- Mince alors! s’écria la poupée fleur (habituellement muette et aveugle) en regardant arriver cette créature indécise et délicieusement ciselée, de l’autre côté de l’Avenue A.

- Elle est nue, sa tête est nue. Si maigre et si belle! Ses seins sont presque inexistants, pointés comme des dunes de sable. Murmura un homme assis à côté d’une pin-up jalouse.

- Elle est si blanche, si longue, si tendue!

Enchérit une jeune femme laide, à la peau couperosée et aux cheveux bruns courts, assise à une table à côté.

- Quelle façon particulière de marcher! Quelle élégance gauche!

S’étourdit Syndra Raynaud, les doigts déployés vers le ciel.


“The Androgyn Doll “ISEE”. Alice Odilon 2011


- Regardez! Ses yeux glacés chavirent au delà d’elle-même, comme si l’orgasme sexuel venait de traverser son corps de poupée au sexe indéterminé.

Ajouta la main coupée, soudainement bleutée par une sorte d’excitation envahissante.

- Elle semble avoir faim, de loin, je vois sa faim, la négation de sa faim en elle, pour être belle, indépendante, et insoumise. S’écria le Ragdoll cat, assis à côté de Flower doll.

- Elle semble vouloir échapper à son ombre.

- Quelle drôle d’inquiétude se lit sur son visage!

- Oui, elle semble terrifiée par quelque chose qui ne se voit pas, qui ne se dit pas! ajouta Akan aux aguets.

- Ces yeux transparents, c’est terriblement troublant! ronronna le chat!

- Un tel désarroi dans ce regard de verre, une telle déception! quelle pauvre poupée! s’écria le garçon de café, pâle de fatigue.

La créature incertaine avançait d’un pas silencieux et cassé comme celui d’un pantin.

La rigidité de ses membres empêchait un mouvement délié et entraînait des rythmes saccadés, surprenants, inquiétants et en même temps extrêmement séduisants.

Plus personne ne pouvait quitter des yeux cette poupée raidie et anéantie par l’absence de toute identité.

Il était plaisant de voir qu’elle n’appartenait ni au genre masculin, par son port de tête et la finesse de sa peau marbrée de froid, par la longueur de ses cils noirs caressant la lumière de la nuit, ni au genre féminin par ses allures adolescentes de jeune garçon insurgé.

Akan l’imagina, déchet de plaisir, prostituée, transsexuelle empêchée, esclave dieu offert aux violences et déjection d’une communauté grasse de pouvoir et de mensonges.

De son corps, on aurait dit celui d’un Apollon amaigri par la soif d’être une femme.

Cette allure terriblement enfantine et prostituée de poupée égarée, disparaissait parfois dans la lumière, si l’on considérait ses bras et l’angulation aiguë de ses jambes.

Rien d’une femme, tout d’un jeune homme et en même temps ni l’un ni l’autre! Une jeune femme maigre au sexe nu, à vendre!

Une tatouée, une brûlée par les cigarettes, un androgyne épilé pour la scène et la jouissance des illuminatis.

(L’objet des désirs enfouis chez ces Messieurs de pouvoir, masquant leur indomptables pulsions homosexuelle et prédatrice.)

- Un ange castré aux allures de fée perdue, sale, et wagabonde.

Virilité et vulnérabilité épousaient les forces saillantes de sa peau à fleur d’os.

Sa maigreur n’était plus, son squelette était tout, ses allures habillaient la chair disparue.

En même temps, ce manque de tout, inspirait une sauvage sexualité à tout ceux qui la regardait: un fantasme de viol, d’attaches, de claques et de possession terminale sur ce corps dénué de possession.

Elle semblait si embarassée de vivre son personnage, cette carcasse aristocratique.

Aveuglée par la peur, elle se sentit brutalement dévisagée par ces gens regroupés aux terrasses.

Elle lança  un regard de verre, opalescent et vif, cruel et tendre à la fois.

Comme pour dire: “je veux disparaître mais je veux subir votre désir criminel de me violer.”

Son être si incandescent se réfugiait dans des yeux admirables, impossiblement beaux, et son squelette érectile, qui finirait par tomber en cendre.

Akan eut très envie de l’inviter à s’assoir parmi ses amis.

Mais était-il humain de demander à quelqu’un de si affamé de se joindre à ceux qui vivent?

Alice Odilon. 21 of January 2011

One of the most searing Portraits of doll’s desperation ever put in Akan’s story.

It’s time to tell about essential, minimal, brutal things in Life. Isn’t it?

Akan had tried terribly hard to postpone this moment when a dark whispering murmur of the wind would came.

But it happened despite that.
This wind was the announcement of death.
Somebody in the tower was going to leave tragically.
This doll didn’t deserve to die alone nor endure this hard life.
This black day was actually a relief for this tenant, a squatter in fact.

She had been hiding in a basement for a few days after having run away from Bresson-City.

Her name was Doll “Mouchette”.


She came from the county of Bernanoshire, where she had lived in hardship in Bresson-city.
There she had faced major difficulties: a dying mother, an alcoholic father who was absent, and a baby brother in need of care.


She had been subjected to derision from her teachers.

“Nothing but a little savage” was how the Bresson-city school-teacher had described fourteen-year-old Mouchette, and that view had been echoed by every right-thinking local citizen.
Mouchette had been alone, completely alone, against everyone.”



Her mother was too sick to get out of bed,  Mouchette had been forced to take on the motherly tasks, preparing everyone’s meals and feeding her younger sibling.

At one point, it even looked like she might try breastfeeding when there was no fire on the stove to heat the baby’s milk.



She had been forced to be an adult even before her body was capable.
Also one dark night she had been raped by a bad man in a wood.


As tragedies continued to pile up, she had decided to leave Bresson-city and to take her life into her own hands, like a last act of defiance.
Mouchette doll was the most beautiful of dolls despite her tangled black hair, her dirty nails, and her wooden clogs.
Akan didn’t know Mouchette, until she had gone to bathe in the river with her friend Betsy, anorexic paper-doll and the severed hand of the doll who had disappeared.
It was the spring of 2011 in April.
It was still very chilly and the wind was twisting and twirling the petals of the young trees in bloom.
This supremely delicate dance had attracted a sad person.


“Mouchette finds rescue and peace in the nature”.

A young doll soiled by the earth and misery, with black hair matted and covered with dust, was sitting, stretched out on the ground, on the green bank: Mouchette.

Betsy who was unable to swim, given that her paper body would disintegrate, was also seated on the other side of the river, looking after the towels of her friends, Akan and Syndra Raynaud.

Akan and Syndra were playing in the cool water splashing each other and diving into the depths.
Their bodies glided in the light, with the thinness of Akan’s body magnificent in the light of the ripples, her skin both pale and livid embellishing the river.
Syndra, the severed hand of the doll who had disappeared, with her long fingers, mimicked the touching grace of a starfish.
Syndra became a mischievous mermaid jumping in the silvery waters; her fingers did not feel the slightest cold or the slightest increase in temperature: a kind of provisional harmony!


Suddenly a cry, Betsy, panicked, helpless, witness of the worst, the death of Mouchette.


Mouchette had let herself roll from the top of the bank like a lifeless puppet carried away by her own momentum down the slope.

{Of course, she does it alone, so maybe Bresson isn’t letting us off the hook after all.

Maybe putting up with a hard life leads us to even harder, more isolated positions.

In the prologue, Mouchette’s mother refers to a stone that is inside her, a metaphor for her illness.

But then, it could be where we all end up, weighted down, and the more we struggle, like a bird ensnared in a poacher’s trap, the more it hurts.

Bresson only releases Mouchette by letting that full weight land on her, and thus pushing her under.}

Mouchette let herself slide into the cold water, drown in icy water, on this beautiful sunny morning in mid-April.

Akan and Syndra had seen nothing, but felt the tumult of the circles in the water left by the despairing leap of the Doll Mouchette.


Betsy stiff with pain, dried out with sadness, stiffened even more before the now empty water.

It was April 14, 2011, Doll Mouchette would leave an enormous hole in the lives of Akan and her friends.

Bresson, director of the masterpiece, says:

“Mouchette offers evidence of misery and cruelty.

She is found everywhere: wars, concentration camps, tortures, assassinations.”



For Mouchette. Alice Odilon December 2010.

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© 2009-2012 Alice ODILON All Rights Reserved -- Copyright notice by Blog Copyright

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