Image source: http://www.nga.gov

My art is mainly inspired by nature or by places I’ve traveled to or read about.  It doesn’t tend to emphasize detail and, when humans are included in the composition, they are usually faceless, depicted as chunky, cubist blocks of colour. People are rarely the main subject of my paintings. And, unlike Frida Kahlo, one of my painting idols, I have never entered the world of portrait painting, much less self-portrait painting.

When painting the facial features of other people, one must pay obsessive attention to detail.  This is a skill I don’t have when it comes to painting.  It’s almost as if, through painting, I can leave the burden of fussing over details behind to pursue a sense of therapeutic self-pleasing aesthetic that focuses on colour and shape, rather than the fine lines and subtleties.  I tend to spend far too much time obsessing over details in real life and so I view painting as an escape from that.  When painting life-like portraits, however, such an escape is impossible.

But, like Picasso, I want to become an artist-of-all-trades or, at the very least, claim experience with different subject matter. So, besides feeling that the experience would be tedious and slightly narcissistic, I decided to attempt a self-portrait.

Image source: pbs.org

The thing about self-portraits is that we know our own faces very well.  From my teenage years through young adulthood I remember countless hours spent obsessing over my reflection: squeezing zits, plucking eyebrows, willing my nose to shrink and wondering what made my face less poetic than that of a famous actress or singer, almost like there was a secret beauty ingredient I might have been born lacking.  Painting a self-portrait demands an attention to detail unlike any other mirror flirtation ever performed.  From the exact shape of the mouth, to the way the cheeks are outlined, I found myself staring at parts of my reflection that I had never experienced before.

Because I’m not experienced in portrait-painting, the painting started out rough.  My oil-painted face was taking on a deformed, misshapen quality, it didn’t look like me, and I found myself criticizing the painting, judging it, and then my own abilities.  I then realized, painfully, that this was akin to the way I would criticize my real-life reflection.  After a while, though, I found myself comforted by my outline’s familiarity and that comfort turned into a sort of visual satisfaction.  This was my face: the window to the person I am who lies beneath and the signature that accompanies everything I say or do in this life.  I began to make peace.

Image source: artquotes.net

Creating art allows us lots of space for reflection.  Perhaps that’s why it’s so therapeutic.  As I mix colours and apply paint to canvas my mind relaxes and wanders, uninhibited, into new terrain.  I find that while painting it helps to have a notebook handy because one artistic pursuit nurtures another and I find myself inspired to not only paint, but write as well. On this portrait-painting day in particular, I felt a relaxing space open up for reflection on who I am now, at 26 years of age.  My reflection may have changed some, but behind the wide gaze, I could still see the smirk of that 9-year old, in the Universal Studios sweatshirt, who was imaginative, idealistic and shit-disturbing, all at once.  I wonder if this 9-year-old knew that in a few years’ time she would be studying something called naturopathic medicine.

This summer has been dedicated to reviewing basic medical sciences for NPLEX and working as an English as a Second Language (ESL) teacher in Toronto.  I haven’t made much time for long contemplative walks, reading literature, laying on the grass, socializing or, most of all, painting or drawing.  The way I structure my day is a reflection of my disbalance, not my actual interests and priorities and, as I paint, my evolving painted self stares back at me from it’s canvas home and asks me, “is this what you wanted?”  

I’m not sure.  But portrait painting shows me that there is a link between borderline narcissism and self-contemplation.  Maybe that’s why it’s called self-reflection.

This post was written in the summer of 2012. Although I hate Mayor Rob Ford, I have to hand it to the man; he must really have a strong sense of self to not get himself down over the very open disdain most Torontonians hold for him.  I wonder if my ego would take that kind of repeated assault over and over again, especially that whole business with his weight-loss.

I was always kind of a chubby kid and, when society started make me conscious of the fact that this was not the way to be I decided to exercise and, essentially, begin dieting.  This has led to a life where I rarely get through a day without at least having the notion weight sail through my mind’s seas.  This seems kind of depressing when expressed, but it’s a concern that I work to push through, taking from it what serves to make me healthy and striving to leave behind the parts of it that lead to obsession and self-loathing.  Many of us deal with similar mental struggles; young women are brought up in a society where nothing less than perfection is accepted.  We have many emotional battles to fight.

Just the other day I was sitting in a Yorkville cafe, near my work, being kept company by my (closed) USMLE Step 1 review book and being kept entertained by watching passersby through the window.  Yorkville is an interesting place to people-watch because everyone who struts by looks like they’re trying to find their way to a fashion runway, but got lost and then walked into Holt Renfrew, and then into Starbucks and now they’re back to looking for the runway they’re supposed to be walking down.  Everyone is wearing an outfit that probably costs more than my student debt and, most of all, it seems that everyone is skinny.  

That day, however, I contemplated my surroundings while sipping my coffee and I thought, while observing a fashionably, particularly stick-like woman, we’re told that that’s the body that all women should live in, regardless of profession, personality or personal health history.  We live our lives obsessing over how to squish our own shapes into the size of clothes that woman wears, giving little thought to the organs, tissues and vis medicatrix naturae, or life force, that actually lies inside each of us.  As I marinated in this little personal revelation, I took another sip of coffee and admitted, She looks nice, fashionable and healthy and maybe that body shape is good for her.  However, there are many shapes of beautiful and I don’t think that shape is good for me.  

I leaned back in my chair and felt the contentedness of having released part of a great mental burden.

Fast forward to a few days later:  I give my class a speaking and writing assignment partly to kill time, to foster creativity and to improve their language skills, especially writing, which is always abysmal.  I have each group generate a list of 10, random, unrelated words and then hand the list over to the other group, who must create a short story using all the words. As a class activity, it actually worked out quite well.

However, one of the groups, headed by a stronger student, who has a rather witty, yet dark sense of humour, created a story featuring, you guess it, me, their teacher.  Sometimes I enjoy the limelight of teaching, other times I shy away from it, passing the buck onto the students, which actually works to their favour.  Most of the time, however, I appreciate working with other people and getting to know these interesting students from a variety of different countries.

This incident, however, made me want to revert back to a student hiding in the back of the classroom.  The gist of their story was that I, Talia, am invited to a party but can’t go because I need a new dress and I can’t find a beautiful dress to fit me because I’m too fat.  Urgh.  On the outside, I figure it must be a joke, an attempt at being funny.  They just didn’t realize what a loaded word fat is for me. I laugh it off, correct some grammar mistakes and make a joke about it.  I know deep down that most jokes resemble some form of truth and on the inside my emotions resemble some kind of amusement park ride, beginning at shock then surging between anger, down to hurt and even lower to despair.

It’s not the first time someone else has openly criticized my body.  Each incident, while stinging at the first impact, can usually be cooled off with some deep breaths, body work and a few self-loving affirmations.  However, it does deepen the contempt I have for how women are viewed in society.

From being lectured by a professional exerciser and dieter for Women’s Health Week at CCNM (she was supposed to discuss body image and the media and instead focused on the existential importance of jumping on a trampoline and limiting grains to rid the body of that “unsightly” stomach pooch) to being the recipient of comments about people who eat healthy but don’t look it, it’s no small wonder that the word weight has set up permanent neural synapses in my brain and, most likely, the brain of every other woman who has ever lived in society.  Why is it our job to please those around us by conforming to the correct societal ideal of the times?  Is it not enough to be fit, happy and healthy?

So while I wait for the next person to deliver a blow to my apparently fragile ego by pretending they know something about me by judging by the size of my behind, I will be sitting in a cafe, philosophizing about body image and maybe, just maybe, feeling a little bit of extra sympathy for Rob Ford.

The new year brings with it the onslaught of new year’s resolutions, the most common being, of course, to lose weight. While most people think that losing weight can help them better their health and well-being, a new study published in JAMA begs to differ.

As it turns out, the supermodel look is not healthy. (Surprise, surprise!). The Journal of the American Medical Association (JAMA) performed a meta-analysis on the role of body fat on predicting longevity.

The study featured almost 3 million subjects and found that people who were overweight, based on a BMI of 25-30 (a body mass calculator that estimates body fat by taking into account height and weight), lived longer than those who were normal weight (BMI = 18.5-24.9) or obese (BMI = greater than 30).

There are some limitations to the study, mainly that correlation does not equal causation and that the study failed to make a distinction between muscle and fat mass or the location of excess weight. For example, weight that is situated on the abdomen is correlated with higher rates of heart disease than excess fat on the thighs and buttocks, which is thought to be healthier. Besides the obvious limitations, the team of researchers stress the statistical significance of the finding and hypothesize that carrying excess fat may have health-protective effects, even providing extra nourishment to the heart, which is fueled predominantly by fat.

This study flies in the face of the mantras of modern medicine.  According to the book by Terry Poulten, No Fat Chicks: How Women are Brainwashed to Hate Their Bodies and Spend Their Money, this is because stigmatization of fatness and obesity directly supports the billion-dollar weight loss industry. We live in a society that shuns those who are overweight, claiming that they are not only visually unappealing, according to the media, but “unhealthy” as well. The result is feelings of inferiority, feelings of shame and an unhealthy relationship with the body and with food. This leads to yo-yo dieting, which health professionals unanimously agree is far more detrimental to health than being overweight, or even eating disorders, which are the most dangerous of all mental illness afflictions. Women attempt to fight their bodies and lose weight, but all they really end up doing is losing their sense of self-worth and, of course, their money.

Now it turns out that, not only is it not unhealthy to be slightly overweight, it might even be protective in the case of chronic disease states, which demand more calories and energy from the body.

So, what’s the naturopathic conclusion one can make from this study? Before heading out to the doughnut shop in a delirious sugar-hungry frenzy and scarfing down a few, consider that this study simply serves to remind us that excess fat, while socially stigmatized as a marker of ill health, may not be so bad after all. Overweight people are not necessarily unhealthy and fat is not necessarily evil. In fact, our bodies love fat. We love to eat it and to store it. We’ve evolved to do so. Aiming to love our bodies and heal a tainted relationship with nutritious food is an important step for becoming healthier individuals and a healthier society that ignores the worshiping of thinness prevalent in the media and health circles today. And, as health professionals, we should also refrain from medicalizing those who appear to be overweight but are in fact physically fit and otherwise perfectly healthy.

That’s not to say, however, that everyone should dump their health goals and aim to become overweight. As I’ve often heard naturopathic doctors say, rather than losing weight to become healthy, it is preferable to make getting healthier the central goal. This means aiming to get at least 30 minutes of daily exercise, eating whole, unprocessed foods, avoiding excess sugar, alcohol and caffeine, getting 7-8 hours of sleep and managing stress. Sometimes we find that, through making these gradual changes to diet and lifestyle, we end up losing weight in the process. Other times we might not.

And, according to this JAMA study, that’s OK too.

For related articles on the stigmatization and commercialization of body image, click here:

http://thewalrus.ca/critical-mass/

http://jezebel.com/5945955/its-hard-enough-to-be-a-fat-kid-without-the-government-telling-you-youre-an-epidemic

http://taliamarcheggiani.com/2012/11/01/body-love/

Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus”. No “thigh gap” here. Image source: allposters.com

I approach the summit of the mountain that we’re slowly scaling, 1 vertical kilometre of it, the air cold despite the heavy gaze of the South American sun. My thighs burn but carry me steadily, my breath laboured but sustained, having fallen into a natural, sustainable rhythm within the first few minutes. The altitude is 2700 m above sea level, roughly 10,000 feet, and although I’ve recently arrived from sea-level Toronto, my mitochondria-heavy thighs and I scale the mountain first, my boyfriend and his two able-bodied brothers, who’ve spent their lives at this altitude, lagging behind.

When I approach the summit, rewarded by a view and an old post-colonial cathedral to explore, I feel a sense of encouragement and accomplishment. My ego as inflated as my lower body and, momentarily, almost as strong.

Rewind to grade 9 gym class. My teenage classmates and I sit in the school weight room, hair up in the messy buns that were the disheveled-chic hairstyle of the time, wearing baggy t-shirts and trackpants. We sit in a semi-circle surrounding my springy and tiny gym teacher who is reassuring us that, if we make weight training part of our regular fitness regime, we need not fear the tyranny of a giant, boar-like figure. “I have been lifting weights all my life,” she tells us, “and this is as big as I’ll ever get.” This seems to calm the initial anxiety. After all, to a 14-year old girl, the importance of reducing the risk of osteoporosis pales in comparison to maintaining a demure, feminine figure. She pauses for a moment, overcome with a burst of honesty, “if you’re like Talia, however,” She continues, nodding in my direction, “you might be able to have thighs like this,” She holds her hands away from her delicate but defined gams, floating in a space that our imaginations are to fill in with bulging, ballooning muscle, just to visually indicate how big some thighs, my thighs, in fact, can get.

The sweatpants of the other girls in the class hang from jutted hip bones like elegant flowing skirts or Aladdin pants, interrupted only by their angular knees. Mine, however, refusing to fit the beauty standard, succumb to the defiance of my curves, which swell out of them, refusing to be forgotten under a pile of fuzzy fabric. I look down at my large thighs and then at the hidden ones of the girls around me. They don’t have thighs so much as continuity between knobby knees and angular hips. Their thighs have not yet been laden with estrogen-receptive fat cells, refusing to be easily mobilized with diet and exercise. Their bodies have apparently decided to give them more time before the baby-nourishing essential fatty acid DHA is laid down as a reservoir for years to be spent breast-feeing a growing infant. I, on the other hand, have been carrying around my future baby’s food stores since I was a child myself.

When I recently came across the term of a new “must have” body feature (as if these were things we could simply slip into and out of and then throw away for the new season when something more fashionable comes along), something called the Thigh Gap, I felt an unpleasant sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach that 8 odd years of body image self-work have failed to harden me against, it seems. The “thigh gap”, it turns out, is not a body part at all, but an area of negative space, nothingness – which is apparently what the female form has been reduced to – between the thighs when a woman (or rather, prepubescent girl) stands with feet or knees together. The female form has become so offensive in its possession of flesh and fat that we now, as a society, are forced to cherish the empty space around her, willing the rest of her to disappear completely, perhaps.

Thinspiration: scary stuff. Image source: indulgy.com

I can only imagine hearing about this phenomenon at the tender age of 14. I shudder thinking about how I would have been affected had this Pinterest and Tumblr-coveted body non-part been present during my fragile, hormonal prime.

I would have been devastated, primarily because it holds in great esteem an unachievable prototype of the body for my – and most of the females of the Homo sapiens species’ – genetics. But, when there is an outside force telling us that we must look beautiful and yet we don’t look beautiful because ______ (fill in the blank), it prevents us from loving all the parts of our physical self, wishing our bodies away into nothingness. This causes fragmentation in our sense of self and ability to self-love. It takes a great amount of self-love to be able to care for your health, your family, your friends, your society.

It’s been hard to love my thighs, even though the same, “unacceptable” thighs beat the boys to the top of a high-altitude peak. The same thighs who demand I frequently replace pants when the fabric between the legs wears thin because when I walk my thighs slide past one another, like two best friends rubbing shoulders, heads touching, refusing to give one another their space.

My thighs are best friends and, although I’m not as close with them as they are with each other, I’m trying very hard to enter into their inner circle. I’ve gotten closer to accepting them in the past few years and I hope that the 14 year-old girls of today, who happen to be endowed with thighs of thunder, can manage to do the same, ignoring the mainstream craving for holes of air in the space where flesh proudly hugs itself between closed limbs.

Poor Britney Spears shrinks before our eyes. Image source: cutzycrazygirl.blogspot.com

Women’s Health Week and International Women’s Day have both come and gone. At the Canadian College of Naturopathic Medicine, Women’s Health Week is usually accented with the popular event, the Body Monologues. Body Monologues, like its vagina-specific counterpart, consists of the telling of narratives on female body image. Every yearly event is filled with challenging, heart-felt, angry and inspiring stories by women as they articulate, through poetry, dance, speech and song, their personal struggles with femininity, sexuality, eating disorders, abuse and fight for body confidence. Sadly, this year, the Body Monologues was cancelled (you can still attend the main event in April 2014, in Toronto – click here for more information). However, even if the Monologue is cancelled, the dialogue must still persist; here are some of my favourite books in the world of female health that challenge the way we view femininity and our relationships with our bodies.

1) Fat is a Feminist Issue by Susie Orbach. A must-read for anyone who has ever dieted, struggled with compulsive eating, suffered from an eating disorder or simply battles an internal critique concerning her appearance. This is an excellent book to use with patients as it contains simple exercises and visualizations to untangle mental-emotional fears and beliefs from the desire to lose weight.

2) The Path of Practice by Bri. Maya Tiwari. Born and raised in Guyana, Tiwari comes from a family of Indian immigrants. She moves to New York City to become a famous fashion designer before falling ill from late-stage ovarian cancer. In an attempt to heal herself she returns to her roots, adapting ayurvedic practices and learning to live more coherently with nature and the practices of her ancestors. While many of her practices may be difficult to incorporate into the modern working woman’s life – not all of us can live in a cabin and grind our own spices every day – her words and exercises inspire us to live more intentionally and make an effort to tune into our bodies more often.

3) The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf. In her book, which has become a manual for Third Wave Feminism, Wolf works to de-construct many of our ingrained beliefs of the importance of women to strive towards a physical ideal. Published in the 1990′s the book is still relevant today. While women have made strides towards equality over the past century, the vast majority of us still suffer from body image issues. Reading Wolf’s book helps to challenge the patriarchal doctrine of the importance of female beauty standards as well as outline its consequences of suppressing female power and maintaining gender inequality.  A powerful book that will make you throw out half your make-up collection and cancel your subscription to women’s magazines… if you want.

4) Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom by Christine Northrop, MD. A women’s health tome on the mind-body connection of various female-specific health complaints. Dr. Northrop’s book helps empower women with their own health by providing wisdom and knowledge about the mind-body connection. “Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom is a love letter to women and their bodies,” writes one reader in the introduction of the book. It’s an 800-page love letter worth reading.

What are your favourite reads on women’s health?

This piece was meant for the CCNM Body Monologues during the 2014 Women’s Health Week. It is an important story for me to tell, so I decided to finish the final edits and publish it here. 

It was in Kingston, Ontario on the campus of Queen’s University, my alma mater, where I first met my roommate, C. We were both giddy with the nervous anticipation of coming face-to-face with the person we’d sleep beside for the next year. We were like two halves of a mail-order marriage; since divorce wasn’t an option, we were determined to make it work.

The pictures we pasted on the walls of our respective sides of the room highlighted the differences in our personalities and adolescent experiences. On her wall, there were sunny photos of rows of carbon copy, bikini-clad young women, posed in a way as to accentuate their lean abdomens and disguise obtuse hips. Their skin was bronzed from the sun. They could have been models. Why weren’t they models? I’m sure some of them were models. On mine, I plastered photos of my mishmash of weird friends. We wore sideways baseball caps, looked into the camera making cartoonish Zoolander faces or tucked our necks in to parody double-chins. We held up our hands in ironic peace signs. We emphasized our ugliness in order to assure our public that we were not trying to fit in. It was hilarious.

High school for me was filled with the angst of trying to find my place in the world. In many pictures I had on Disney princess t-shirts in children’s sizes and baggy grandfather trousers from vintage clothing stores. I was trying on irony that year and, unlike my clothes, it seemed to fit quite well. Throughout my teen years, as I tried to find out who I was, I was acutely aware of my hidden longing for being the kind of girl featured en masse in C’s photos, one of which C was herself. They fit the pervasive image of what society has made clear a woman ought to look like: classically beautiful, graceful and, of course, perfectly thin. They were rewarded for their enthusiastic conformity with popularity, boyfriends and, as I saw it, peace of mind. They lined up for the same kinds of pictures that marketers use to sell us their shit. I longed for that kind of obvious beauty, of knowing my place and the guarantee of acceptance that comes with that. Instead, I struggled with chubbiness and a body that refused to look like it belonged in an American Apparel ad. It seemed like it would be so much easier to be one of the beautiful and be saved the challenge of trying to develop a persona that was funny or interesting in order to avoid spending my youth behind a grey veil of invisibility.

I was starting university at a time where women were told we could be and do anything. The school itself was 70% female, with the exception of the engineering department, which was at about a 50:50 ratio. The president of the school was a female. A photo featuring her used-car-saleswoman grin was on all the brochures. She was American and talked of privatization, which would result in increased tuition rates and lower accessibility to prospective students: go, Girl Power. Other than that, it was a grand time for women’s careers. However, it was also a grand time for eating disorders and rotten body image. Women put up their hands in class less often than male students. We spent more time on cardio machines at the gym and created long lines for the vegan section of the cafeteria where the portions were inhumanely small. The tub of low-fat ice cream at the cafeteria dessert counter was always the first one to run out. Female Queen’s students gossiped about each other and gave each other cut-eye. We all vied for the scarcity of male attention; in the anonymity of competitive academia, it served as one of the only sources of validation of self-worth. The women at Queen’s University, despite being strong in number, were tragically frail in self-esteem.

This affected me because it emphasized the importance of appearance in the art of mattering to anyone. All social interactions relied primarily on initial impressions. I fell into a dysthymia throughout my years at Queen’s and, even though C and I ended up becoming close, our differences remained and quickly became a herd of growing elephants occupying space in our tiny dorm room. She wore the proper fashions, which suited her petit frame. She garnered attention from males, sometimes unwanted but, for some reason, I failed to sympathize with that: if existing meant getting harassed, then at least she existed. I felt impossibly lonely during those four years. At the time I thought I was the only one. Such is the definition of loneliness, I suppose.

One day C found a painful lump on her shoulder. She told my roommates and me about it and we tittered back with a chorus of, “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing”. The next week she went home. She had an appointment with her doctor for a biopsy. She didn’t come back. We got an email from her telling us that she would start chemotherapy soon; the lump was cancer. It seems that, unlike the students at Queen’s, cancer fails to notice if you’re young and beautiful.

C came back to Kingston one day to visit us. She was thinner than ever – however no one commented that this was a bad thing – and her hair was different. She took it off to reveal a bald scalp. She showed us the phone number of a guy who had sat beside her on the train and given her his number. She explained that she wouldn’t call him; she hadn’t told him she was sick. I found it amazing that she was still desirable enough to be noticed by a good-looking stranger on a train, despite the rounds of chemo she was enduring and the threat of cancerous cells invading her body. Perhaps it was because of them. Her emaciated frame made her fit in with the fashion models and the twiggy girl whose treadmill I ran beside every morning. On one occasion, the girl had fainted beside me and the campus first aid crew had to help her up and tell her to go have a juice or something to bring up her blood sugar. Sometimes I saw her walking around campus wearing clothes that still came in her size. I wondered if her body knew it was born into a first world country where grain surpluses are dumped into the ocean. She had a boyfriend. C put the wig back on.

We went out that night and I was aware of feeling fat. The fact that I was healthy in body but not in mind or spirit made me first begin to question where disease comes from. I wondered how C was feeling. What must her experience be like? I was distinctly aware of being afraid to ask. Was I afraid that her worries would put to shame my shallow, unjustifiable envy of her? Would it destroy the beauty myth I’d held on to, despite its poisonous nature? Challenging the myth might mean that I’d have to look deeper into the shadows for the source of my unhappiness, perhaps I was too afraid of what lurked there. So I remained silent.

A friend of ours noticed us, came over to say hello. She reached over and touched C’s hair, admiring it. My roommates and I burned with the hot dramatic irony of this friend’s unawareness of it being a wig. She wouldn’t find out about the cancer until months later.

I imagine that loneliness is not only reserved for those society deems inappropriate. C must have felt the loneliness too, growing in her body faster and more invasively than the cancer. If I could change something about that time I would have changed the fact that I never opened myself up to her. I never asked her how she was feeling through it all, or if she was scared to die; I wondered if she had thought about death and considered her delicately thin mortality. Those that knew her denied it being a possibility and then, a little over a year later, it turned out to be an inevitability. I wonder if the vulnerable frankness of an honest conversation would have stimulated healing in us both.

Instead, I allowed a patriarchal value system to form a gaping abyss between us, an abyss created by the lie that those who look the way they ought to live a charmed life, free from pain, that if women shut up and conform to a beauty standard then they will be happy, healthy and loved. My complacent acceptance of this lie robbed me of the ability to empathize with my friend’s suffering. I failed to consider her an equal, as the poor may be guilty of their inability to understand the suffering of the rich. And through this gaze of perceived inequality we were divided and prevented from connecting as two human beings with everything in common that mattered. We remained isolated in our respective experiences.

In both cancer and disordered eating the body fades away, rebels, is rejected and worst of all, deprived of love. Perhaps in connecting we would have felt the loneliness dissolve, looked death in the eye and refused to be invisible. It is said that those who lose their sight develop acute hearing. Our culture teaches us to be blind, so we can only respond by listening more intently to one another.