There’s Something About Clint


The stunning Monica Bellucci – to me she’s an incredible work of art of the feminine form. When I see her all I can think is ‘100% Woman’

OK – Nobody’s perfect. And I for one find the rough edges and splattered paint blobs and imperfections and tears on a canvas beautiful, never having been a fan of ‘pristine perfection’ except when it comes to engineering and music. There are very few movie actors I find charismatic or just with that unfathomable ‘something’ that is strangely, mysteriously alluring and seductive in a deeply masculine way. I have a weird taste when it comes to the ‘looks’ of men and the actors I find immeasurably good-looking are not the usual norm or those who are considered conventionally handsome by most women. Purely from an aesthetic point I prefer looking at extraordinarily beautiful women. I find women far more visually appealing  and inspiring than men and there are quite a few I admire for their beauty from an artist’s point of view. Heck – I even get turned on when I’m captivated by the beauty of a woman – her eyes, lips, curves, angles…..and I’m glad that as a woman I get the benefit of admiring that beauty without having the urge to act upon it.  The silent minutes I’ve spent admiring the images of Monica Bellucci  and Yamila Diaz Rahi, amongst others, and the level of detail with which I’ve soaked in the faces of Eva Green, Angelina Jolie, Laetitia Casta and a younger Aishwarya Rai, Audrey Hepburn and Catherine Zeta Jones is because as a painter and artist I’ve often wondered how in the evolutionary cycle, and purely from a physical point, perhaps what started as a flower has culminated in the beauty of a woman. And I have never really understood why so many women feel so jealous or insecure by another woman’s physical beauty, especially if that beauty is of exceptional standards (and not the kind that tries hard to camouflage through make-up and clothes or cognitive dissonance of mass validation that assures the ‘popularity  and enshrinement of mediocrity’.) To be jealous of extraordinary feminine beauty  is as ridiculous as being upset and jealous over some external work of breath-taking art, just because it exists. I think when it comes to this, every man and woman should watch the poignant film ‘Malena’ starring Monica Bellucci to understand both the effect and the curse of beauty.

But when it comes to men, there are very, very few that I find incredibly attractive from some visceral level. My favourite actor of all time is Daniel Day-Lewis who I find incomprehensibly, unfathomably handsome (besides his being one of the best actors as well). I do not know why, but I just do. (not in his moustachioed roles but when he is clean shaven.) Then – the expressionless Keanu Reeves – not from any attraction point but just because his face is a fascinating study of minimalism – i.e. from an artist’s point of view, his face can be defined as ‘the least number of straight lines necessary to create a masculine face’.  And I do like Viggo Mortensen in a beard – in fact he looks better bearded.  The fact that he is a writer, painter, poet, musician, photographer AND an actor makes him quite a renaissance man. The only ‘traditionally handsome’ men I do find mildly attractive are Pierce Brosnan, Robert Redford, Denzel Washington.  But I’ve seen them in real life, and I think they look much better on the screen.

But since Daniel Day-Lewis is British,  the only American actor that I have found incredibly attractive for years and whose directorial work I admire immensely too – and who I find probably even more attractive than Lewis is that stoic, strong silent ‘man without a name’ –  assertive, quietly masculine, un-wussified; whose  poker faced visage (in his younger days,) and straight strides have always had a weird effect on me, since as far back as I can remember, an effect very few other men, if at all, could ever have – an effect that reminds me at some core  intrinsic level that I am a Woman.  And that he is a Man. And as though that fact in itself is enough. And that nothing else needs to be spoken.

Happy Birthday Clint. (b. 31st May, 1930)

Sometimes I think your ‘man without a name’ should make a comeback to teach many of the overtly female-nagged wussified or sissified men of America what it is like to be a real man. The kind that women who are secure both with their inner strength and femininity, women who are neither looking to male-bash nor male-nag, but quite simply admire a man for being a man find incredibly attractive.

For one of the best movie scenes ever – wish this clip included the complete ending though…