Well, there's nothing like sharing a house for a week with someone for whom English is a foreign tongue to get one thinking about language!
I've always been interested in nuance and shades of meaning and a conversation we had about beautiful/handsome reminded me just how important it is. Apparently in Italian the same word does for both with just a change of ending to signify masculine/feminine so bello/bella. Our houseguest had been taught that when translating and speaking of people, beautiful could only be used for women and handsome only for men. A good rule of thumb I suppose, but how much it misses!
It's perfectly possible to speak of a handsome woman, but to me that means she probably isn't conventionally beautiful, ie not pretty-pretty, but she is stately, imposing, well-dressed, probably aristocratic, and not in the first flush of youth. It's harder perhaps to speak of a beautiful man. Someone like Tadzio in Death in Venice is definitely beautiful, though he's a boy rather than a man, and there are one or two faintly androgynous statues (?of David?) which would fit the word. However, I recently read an article by a woman who used it of her lover and it made a big impact on me purely because it was so unusual. Instantly, I understood he might not have been good-looking in the accepted way, but his manner, his manners, his voice, his kindness, everything about him was beautiful. That told me far more than a common-or-garden "handsome". It also told me more about the writer and her feelings for him.
The same occurred when we discussed the word "gorgeous" as a synonym for lovely. Fabric can be gorgeous, but to me that means it's luxurious, deep-dyed, expensive -- silks or velvets. A view gorgeous? Perhaps, but not easily for me. Food? Probably not. But it was when applied to people we had problems. To me, using the term about another adult would usually imply a level of sexual attraction. Girls giggling over a picture of Daniel Craig might say it, but they wouldn't use it in connection with Rachel Weisz, though their brothers might. But as a result, a man calling a child gorgeous would have me looking at him through very narrowed eyes, because it would feel inappropriately sexual, yet a woman could describe a young (ie pre-teen) boy as gorgeous without any of that baggage somehow.
When we're in everyday conversation we drift along on auto-pilot using our common expressions without thought, and probably using "nice" more than any other word, but as writers we need to be aware of these subtle differences and the baggage that words carry. I suppose what I'm whiffling on about is that when we come to write we have to think about the words we use to ensure we employ the most appropriate ones.
Arrivederci!
NB Interestingly, sfumatura doesn't only mean nuance in language, it (or sfumato) is used in art to describe shading techniques and according to wikipedia it's a traditional way of obtaining essential oils from citrus fruits!
I've always been interested in nuance and shades of meaning and a conversation we had about beautiful/handsome reminded me just how important it is. Apparently in Italian the same word does for both with just a change of ending to signify masculine/feminine so bello/bella. Our houseguest had been taught that when translating and speaking of people, beautiful could only be used for women and handsome only for men. A good rule of thumb I suppose, but how much it misses!
It's perfectly possible to speak of a handsome woman, but to me that means she probably isn't conventionally beautiful, ie not pretty-pretty, but she is stately, imposing, well-dressed, probably aristocratic, and not in the first flush of youth. It's harder perhaps to speak of a beautiful man. Someone like Tadzio in Death in Venice is definitely beautiful, though he's a boy rather than a man, and there are one or two faintly androgynous statues (?of David?) which would fit the word. However, I recently read an article by a woman who used it of her lover and it made a big impact on me purely because it was so unusual. Instantly, I understood he might not have been good-looking in the accepted way, but his manner, his manners, his voice, his kindness, everything about him was beautiful. That told me far more than a common-or-garden "handsome". It also told me more about the writer and her feelings for him.
The same occurred when we discussed the word "gorgeous" as a synonym for lovely. Fabric can be gorgeous, but to me that means it's luxurious, deep-dyed, expensive -- silks or velvets. A view gorgeous? Perhaps, but not easily for me. Food? Probably not. But it was when applied to people we had problems. To me, using the term about another adult would usually imply a level of sexual attraction. Girls giggling over a picture of Daniel Craig might say it, but they wouldn't use it in connection with Rachel Weisz, though their brothers might. But as a result, a man calling a child gorgeous would have me looking at him through very narrowed eyes, because it would feel inappropriately sexual, yet a woman could describe a young (ie pre-teen) boy as gorgeous without any of that baggage somehow.
When we're in everyday conversation we drift along on auto-pilot using our common expressions without thought, and probably using "nice" more than any other word, but as writers we need to be aware of these subtle differences and the baggage that words carry. I suppose what I'm whiffling on about is that when we come to write we have to think about the words we use to ensure we employ the most appropriate ones.
Arrivederci!
NB Interestingly, sfumatura doesn't only mean nuance in language, it (or sfumato) is used in art to describe shading techniques and according to wikipedia it's a traditional way of obtaining essential oils from citrus fruits!
I tend to use the words 'beautiful,' 'pretty,' and 'foxy' for men, even though they're usually associated with women, as that's the type of guy I go for. (Look at Ben Barnes and tell me he's not beautiful!) If I ever say a man's handsome, it'll mean that I think he looks nice enough, but he's not attractive to me. 
