The Mirror Experiment

On Sunday, I decided to cover up the mirror over my sink and the mirror in my closet. Ideas had been bouncing around in my head, ideas about Lacanian’s theories of the self. I do not profess to have any great knowledge of what Lacan was trying to say in “The Mirror Stage,” but a thread of his theory has stayed with me: by looking in the mirror, I alienate myself from myself. By looking at myself in the mirror, I do not see me but rather how other people see me. Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s novel says that the essential is invisible. An essential part of me is invisible, as well – but here I start treading on thin ice. By veering into the territory of the “invisible,” I inevitably think of abstract, disembodied concepts. The mind is invisible, and if we think of the mind, then diametric opposite which follows naturally is the body. Thank goodness that in everyday jargon we don’t readily think of the mind/body dichotomy. I might say that we allow a trichotomy of mind/body/soul. However, we can lump mind/soul together, leaving us still to contend with the dichotomy of internal/external. May I have a third option? The essence of who I am does not lie more in the mind than the body, or the body more than mind. I am both. My body and how I think – not to mention how I feel – are me.

I covered up my mirrors because I did not want to alienate my perception of myself from who I actually am any longer. I grabbed a scarf and darkened the mirror, and doing so felt like cutting a string that tied me, wrist-to-wrist, to a vague presence. I didn't even know that presence existed until it was gone. The scarf covering the mirror is crocheted in an elaborate pattern, and though I can still see the mirror through the holes, it is like I have control over the portal to a mystical land. I know most poignantly that the mirror is still there, as did my roommate and probably most of my friends who have come to our room since I covered them. I do not have to look at myself when I brush my teeth, brush my hair, put in my contacts, get dressed.

My roommate’s mirror remains uncovered, however. When I am in a rush or can’t help myself, I take a peek in the mirror to make sure my hair parts the way it usually does, to make sure I don’t have that fabled bit of broccoli stuck in my teeth. I cannot escape the fact I see my face when I use a public restroom, or that I catch my reflection in a window or in my computer screen. I check to make sure that my hair is still parted neatly, or if I’m wearing my glasses, that they aren’t askance – it’s almost impossible not to. But the place I see my face most is in my room, and I have dealt with that.

I usually wear what clothes I please, and comfortable clothes, at that. But over the past few days, I have felt even more comfortable because I was not seeing what I would look like and how other people would see me. It’s a strange feeling to try to convey. I felt at peace with myself, like there was harmony between my inner mind and my outer body. I wish I could say that there was no difference between my mind and body, that I could not distinguish one from the other. The barrier still stands, but the lines have been blurred a little. I like not looking at myself but rather being myself.