I have to admit I am smitten with the whole giddy hubbub of Oscar night. The glitz, the glam, the jewelry, the shoes. Bradley Cooper escorting his mother as his date. The self-effacing humor of Jennifer Lawrence after she tripped on the stairs. Ellen’s trademark interpersonal approach to hosting, with selfies and pizza. I love the films, the whole process of filmmaking, and the recap of each nominee. So, I am sitting here eagerly awaiting this year’s show to watch the parade of talent, today’s untouchables, this generation’s gods and goddesses.
But beyond the slick and suave, all the surface glamor covers who knows what hides beneath; the addicts, the insecure, the emotionally broken. There is no way to know who these folks are, really. I like to think they are a bunch of artists, like me. Mostly liberal-minded individuals, introverts who live for their craft, who have perhaps stumbled into the luckiest possible batch of circumstances; the brass ring, the American dream.
Earlier this month I watched “American Horror Story’s” Jamie Brewer stride down the catwalk during New York Fashion Week. Clad in Carrie Hammer’s modest black A-line, her generous curls swept up in a loosely controlled bun, the curvy little woman sported an air of barely concealed glee as she turned, pausing smiling for the flashing paparazzi. Jamie is the first model with Down syndrome to grace the runway at this event.
Thanks to the vision of Carrie Hammer, this milestone happened just days ago. It isn’t too difficult to make the leap from here to immortality. So this year I am picturing an Oscar night with Jamie on the red carpet; and a parade of unconventional talent that includes real women… Women who are over 30, and over 100 lbs. Our day is coming.