Artemis is "The Maiden", embodying delusional youth. She wears a gown made up with 500m of fishing line, hooks still attached. While it has the appearance of delicacy, her gown is an unwieldy mass of tangles and thin, insubstantial silk.
Caught in her own trap. She has swallowed these lies: Skinny=Beautiful, Beauty=Sexiness, Sex=Power. So she cakes on the eye-liner, stuffs her feet into her killer heels and nurses a perpetual cycle of anorexia.
Ironically, by starving herself to look like the ideal woman, she has choked off the essence of her femininity. She is hollow inside, her belly ceiled in plastic, triumphant in her self-imposed amenorrhea, reveling in her hard-won boyish glamour. She is suspended in a state of not-quite-living-and not-quite-dead, like anhydrobiotic royalty, awaiting her ascension to the throne, 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 goddess 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 cod-piece because she is the true keeper of the family jewels and distended from below drip the keys of wisdom she is always supposed 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 drained and redistributed and engineered to make her the ultimate provider. She's a 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 reach 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. She is like a sad delicate fairy, 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, inaccessible. She is childlike in some ways, innocent, untouchable, thin-skinned and precious.
She is no longer the penultimate symbols of female power, embodied for example, in the Minoan snake goddess. Hecate's breast are through with giving. in her hands are only the flaccid skins of once-were snakes.
This Virgin Queen wears an Elizabthan farthingale, a cage for her lower half. (Being postmenopausal, anything below her waist is for all intents and purposes, off limits.)