Monica's Story
by Monica Graf

It was an issue even before the breast cancer, before the chemotherapy, before the operations. But after, when my scalp gleamed bald like an oversized baby’s head, and my right breast was exchanged for a huge frowning scar, it was then that I really had to reckon with my negative body image.

I had to come to terms with the woman reflecting back at me from the mirror. If I saw a flawed and inadequate body before, when I was young and healthy, how could I bear the image before me now?

And bear it I had to, in more ways then I reckoned. Of all the possible times in my life, it was now, after the marring and scarring of the cancer treatments, that my partner Tony, a reputable Canadian artist, approached me to pose –nude- for a portrait. My whole notion of portraits, about trying to look ‘beautiful’ or show off your finest features, was about to crumble. He’d stood by me every step of the cancer way and now he wanted to paint the portrait as an expression of the emotional tumult he’d experienced alongside me. My consent didn’t come easily or readily, but agree I did - with one huge condition attached. Absolutely no one was to view it. Even I didn’t want to see it. It was our little/big secret. He agreed.

It felt like an eternity, day after day, while Tony worked on that portrait. I dodged it, insisting he cover it when I walked by, fending off folks who dropped in while he was painting. But one day it happened, I accidently saw it. The horror! Who was that vulnerable woman, so damaged, so ugly? How could I live in the same house with her, knowing she was captured on canvas? I (shed many tears that day), vowed never to look at her again, denied the portrait’s existence altogether.

I hoped that was the end of it. I’d simply avoid the version of Dorian Gray I’d turned into. No looking into mirrors, no peering at portraits. I’d avoid the topic altogether. Until one day Tony came up to me, his face betraying nervousness, his eyes tentative (and careful). He wanted to talk about the portrait. He wanted to enter it into Canada’s National portrait competition in Kingston. It was one of his best artworks ever and it needed to come out of hiding.

My reaction was swift, kicking out refusals and outrage. But something was needling me; I was annoying myself. Tony articulated the difference between the portrait and me. “This is not just about you specifically”. He was right. It was about the universal experience of going through cancer while at the same time expressing Tony’s own personal perceptions and emotional responses attending the ordeal.

And I didn’t like the way I was chafing up against my value system. Wasn’t I always championing truth, honesty and all that is real in life? Didn’t I wager all my bets on authenticity? Was I ducking these values to pay homage to my fear of being seen? Was ego hogging the reins, steering me astray?

Something was softening. How could I reject and call ugly, or hide away from an image of a woman radiating an honest experience which portrayed genuine vulnerability, struggle and strength? The word ugly didn’t belong here. I’d always cherished imagery daring to wade deeply into human existence; why resist, reject it now? I plucked up my courage and agreed to the competition.

The day of the adjudication came. The exhibit was packed. I hoped no one would recognize me. I was still hiding out, finding it difficult to acknowledge the portrait hanging on the gallery wall. But then something happened which turned everything on its heels. It was one of those moments when your own internal struggles suddenly forget themselves, when something bigger comes along. The curator approached Tony and reluctantly disclosed the unilateral decision made by the theatre hosting the exhibit, that his painting would be either covered up or removed to ‘protect’ children who were attending the exhibit the following day. My inhibitions evaporated instantly. I was incensed. How dare they try to hide it! How dare they tarnish it as something shameful or offensive. (My mind flickered back to the lingerie store I noticed while walking to the theatre, the display window thrusting out hips and breasts of sexy mannequins sexually enticing anyone who walked by. And this, this is somehow ok for children to witness, day in and day out as they pass by, while the portrait is not?) I threatened to contact media. No one was going to censor my portrait!

Tony and I were both amazed by my response. I’d completely reversed my feelings. The maneuver to conceal the portrait sparked the urgency for me to tell the truth, to reject lies or cover-ups about what was real. In the end, my portrait was left hanging undraped for all to see.

To this day, I still teeter a little feeling exposed, but neither I nor anyone else will ever cover it up again. I’ll never deny the vital important truth it speaks. The portrait has its own voice, speaking volumes about what it’s like to be human in its many dimensions.