Cindy Sherman, Untitled #413
Standing in front of my greenscreen, the camera clicks. I’m wearing a brown shaggy wig, copious amounts of makeup, and a black silk jacket with Cindy embroidered in pink thread. Although I’ve been disguising myself in my photos for years, this time the prosthetics on my face, protruding cheeks and a large, red-tipped nose, have made me feel more uncomfortable than usual. As I secured them to my face they felt more strongly attached than before, not a bad thing as I sweat a lot under the lights, making my studio feel like a sauna. As I turn all my equipment off, I remove the jacket, letting some heat escape from my body. I move to my head. When my attempt to find the lace front fails, I begin uselessly tugging on the wig harder and harder. Slowly I realize that it’s not coming off.
I run over to my desk. The wig glue I used to secure my unkempt hair is the same one I always use. Why would it be any stronger than usual? Why, no matter how hard I pull on my hair, does it refuse to come off? I feel like I’m pulling my own scalp. I frantically move my hands down my face. The prosthetics feel different than they usually do. They’re not hard like papier-mâché, instead they have the softness and malleability of skin. Perhaps they are more blended with my face than they were? I take a towel and start to rub my face, almost violently. The clown face I painted on an hour ago isn’t going anywhere. I feel like I’m not scrubbing prosthetics. It’s as if the attached cheeks and nose were my own skin. It’s getting red like it’s skin too!
I’ve been scrubbing and tugging for over an hour now, my cheeks are still puffed out and nose protruding, the makeup hasn’t come off at all, and my scalp is sore to the touch from trying to remove the wig. I’m running out of options. My cheeks are somehow more swollen than when I started and the red on my nose is bleeding into the rest of my flesh. I try to call someone, the first time I’ve tried to say a word since I noticed my unfortunate predicament, and suddenly, I realize my mouth won’t open. I try to speak and am met with confusion on the other line. This confusion quickly turns to anger as they say “Hello? Hello? Is this a goddamn prank call?” I look in the mirror and realize I’d painted over my mouth, where my lips are now a black hole, outlined with red clown lips, turned down in a frown. I stare and attempt to wipe off the black paint, trying to find my lips and mouthline, to no avail.
I know I should go to the hospital, or at least call 911, but what am I supposed to tell them? How am I supposed to tell them? I sit down in my chair with the scalpel I use to cut my prosthetics. I know what I have to do, and to get help I need to be able to speak. Maybe I don’t even need help, maybe this is just a weird reaction or dream and once I make the first cut everything will just peel off like it normally does. I move the scalpel up to my face, hesitating as my heart pounds out of my chest. I make the incision slowly, for what feels like forever. As I cut off the latex, I think I see my mouth underneath. As I finish making the opening, I start to peel off my painted face. I go from inconvenienced to terrified as I realize what I saw underneath wasn’t my lips, but instead muscle tissue covered in blood. In this dreadful mindset I continue to peel my skin back, not processing that all I’m doing is making myself look less like a clown and more like ground beef. I can finally open my mouth, or whatever resembles it underneath my painted skin. Yet instead of calling for help all I can muster is a blood curdling scream.
