Artemis is "The Maiden", embodying delusional youth. She is engulfed in a gown made up with 500m of fishing line, hooks still attached; an unwieldy mass of tangles and thin, insubstantial silk.
Miss Behavin' has been lured into a trap. She swallowed the lies fed to her about thinness, beauty and the feminine ideal.
She cakes on the eye-liner, stuffs her feet into killer heels and nurses a perpetual cycle of anorexia, feeding a false sense of seductive power, believing that this is how she will finally win love and acceptance.
Ironically, by starving herself to look like the ideal “woman”, she has choked off the essence of femininity. She is hollow inside, her belly ceiled in plastic, triumphant in her self-imposed amenorrhea, revelling in her hard-won boyish glamour. The myth of binary gender confounds her. She is suspended in a state of not-quite-living-and not-quite-dead, like anhydrobiotic royalty, awaiting her instant life.
She is blinded by her own mask, unaware that she has actually become ensnared by a consumerist world that churns out plastic goddesses like novelty trinkets.
Selene Machine is the ultimate Mom. She does it all. She is a provider, a nurturer, a fixer-of-broken-things. She is a warrior, a protector and inventor. In all this, however, she has had to sacrifice a certain amount of personal time for herself.
Her once lithe figure has spread a little…well, a lot, and she just doesn't have time to ensure her mascara is intact, and her hair perfectly coifed. But those superficial things are of little importance anymore to Ms. Machine.
Selene has faucet taps for nipples. She has had to become a constant faunt of sustenance to others.
She is girded in leather because she has had to create a tough exterior in order to cope with the demands of middle-age.
She wears a codpiece because she is the true keeper of the family jewels, while distended from below drip the keys of wisdom she is always expected to have.
Her rounded belly is full to bursting with the ripe fertility of life, which is, admittedly, quite ungainly at times. But hey, her body isn't about her anymore. It's been morphed and redistributed and engineered to make her the ultimate provider. She's a bio-mecha-superhero. Unfortunately, this means poor Selene appears to be anything but the image of female perfection (even if she actually is).
Hecate Rex: "The Crone". Old age is supposed to be when we reach the pinnacle of life, when we awaken to some sort of ultimate wisdom. How cruel it would seem, then, to have reached one's golden years, only to become the object of ridicule, pity, or worse yet, to have become nothing more than a statistical drain on the healthcare system.
But Hecate is not the stereotypical "little old lady" drag. Nor is she a wicked old witch. She is the Off-White Queen, with a crown made from the vertebrae of rabbits.
She is withered, dried-up, no longer a conduit of energy. She is staid, bound, encaged and inaccessible. She is childlike in some ways, asexual, non-threatening, untouchable, thin-skinned and yet mysteriously proud.
This Virgin Queen wears an Elizabthan farthingale, a cage for her lower half. (Being postmenopausal, anything below her waist is not popularly acknowledged.)
She is no longer the penultimate symbol of so-called female power, embodied for example, in the Minoan snake goddess.