Rejoice, James

Rejoice, James

In his book,The Portrait of an Artist As a Young Man,James Joyce stated that beauty is the essence of art. That proportion and harmony, whether in music, painting, or writing, is what makes a masterpiece. And they are exactly why Valerie Johnson was the personification of this description, a living example of art in human form.

But this is not a story about philosophy or art theory, it is far more physical. It is about one of the most beautiful bodies ever born on earth.

If anyone wonders what the purpose of woman on earth is, all he has to do is keep the image of the 38C-24-36, five foot seven inch, hundred-twelve pound, natural honey-blond beauty in front of him. If this were a painting instead of words, the viewer would know with absolute certainty what that purpose is.

And that is, simply, to make people happy.

It took Valerie some time to become aware of it, herself. Even longer for her parents and relatives. They thought the girl should get a college education like most of her classmates. But academically she was an Eskimo in the tropics or an Hawaiian in an igloo. When the adults realized this, they suggested modeling; but the stately form had no such ambition and, embarrassingly, couldn't master the model's sachet down the runway. So they promoted still shots: certainly beautiful Valerie could model clothing for catalogues. But it wasn't meant to be because she couldn'tsitlong enough. In time, everyone agreed that the only thing to be done with the stunning beauty was let Nature take her course.

Relatives and well-wishers thought Valerie would marry young and breed a Super-Van full of kids, but that's not the way it happened. Instead, she was thirty-six before she had her first and only child. What happened between sweet sixteen and heavenly thirty-six for Goddess 38C-24-36? She worked in an airport directing people to boarding gates.

Valerie was not a fool, though everyone who looked at her suspected she was closer to being the original Dumb Blond than a Rhodes Scholar. It's simply that she had learned that her God-given magnetism and

deepest desire coincided.

While Valerie knew she had what many considered a perfect body, she was not ashamed to admit that she enjoyed having it looked at. But more importantly, she noticed that othersreallyenjoyed staring. She was happy to satisfy the personal and the public at the same time.

Have you ever seen Valerie at Municipal Airport? Sexual fantasies aside, men, weren't you happier because she was in the main foyer? Haven't you glowed when she or any heavenly creature smiled at you, whether your loving wife and children were with you or not?

And women, be honest: aren't you pleased when you see one of your own so close to perfection? The perfect form, the perfect hair, clothes, smile, and demeanor? Doesn't all that make you feel good, too?

And there you have it.

But Ms Johnson was blessed with another characteristic that added to her attractiveness: she was as close as a human can get, short of a saint, of being without an ego. Many thought that would have been a most damaging flaw. But the truth is that Valerie simply knew she was stunning, knew that others appreciated looking at her, and enjoyed her role. It really was as simple as that.

Valerie married an Airport Security Guard who had watched the beautiful woman's divine body eight hours, every day, for nearly twenty years. To him, she was untouchable. The possibility of marrying her was preposterous. How couldhe expectto marry Heaven on Earth?

Little Jeffrey was born nine months after the wedding. And with that, the beautiful Valerie changed exhibition halls. Now she scooted the boy from stadium-filled Little League fields to auditorium-packed piano halls to gymnasium-burgeoning basketball courts. And always with the same result: kids struck out, missed chords, botched lay ups. Because that perfect body, though now housed by a mother, was still a knock-out. Many wondered if she would have that effect while lying in her casket.

Security Guards are down-to-earth, objective people who fulfill a very important cog in society's great machinery. They leave imagination to the poets and artists. However, Valerie's husband romanticized once. He insisted that a wax replica of her phenominal body be made.

As it turns out, there is great truth in the saying, from little acorns giant oaks grow. Before the wax form was made, many people took photographs of Valerie as she stood in the airport. Also, many artists sketched her as they waited for their flights. But their purpose was to

please themselves. Before Maurice Olsen made the wax mold, he said it would be a sin to lock perfection in a dark room or even stuffy exhibition gallery. So the artist transposed the wax form to metal, plastic, wood, on paper and cloth and silk, all so more people could enjoy Valerie's heavenly proportions. The most striking was the figurehead a yacht company used as its logo: a stunning mermaid. It still graces the prow of some of the world's most luxurious sail boats.

Those of you who are tired of today's emphasis on physical beauty could easily turn the page and read a story you see more uplifting. But if you've seen Valerie or any of her replications, even you would agree that when ego, vanity, and conceit are removed, a deeper beauty shines through. A magnetism that transcends the eye. Whether you call it aura, vibes, the radiation from an inner charm, Valerie, like all women to some degree, possessed it to a T. Because the truth is that while everyone enjoyed seeing her exterior, it was her subtle, inner beauty that really mesmerized them.

Yet with all this, this walking Venus was just as normal as you or me. She spoke with everyone, never put on airs, could not act superior, and changed diapers and soccer-mommed like the rest of us.

Having said all this, one additional thing must be mentioned: Valerie was not perfect. Like everyone else, in her fifties she began to droop. Even sag. True, the gravity that comes with age blooped her figure, but inside she was just as beautiful as ever: her inner charm never diminished.

In time, Valerie died. She was seventy. And everyone who went to the funeral swore that she did, indeed, radiate that hallmark beauty even from the casket.

But, of course, the once-38C-24-36 with the natural, honey-blond hair, the enchanting hazel eyes and perfect complexion, those will never grace the spectator again. Still, they will never be forgotten. And not because of all the replicas made of her, especially the wax form in the foyer of Ken's apartment and the figurehead on the yachts, but because she impressed the nervous system of everyone who saw her with her stunning beauty and perfect proportions. James was right: with Valerie, we have every reason to rejoice.