Today a beautiful thing : commercial sex work represented in a positive light in the mainstream press! Let it speak for itself!
Featuring of course, the indomitable Vikki Badd. Love and kisses!
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/01/julliard-ballet-strip-club_n_1929030.html?utm_hp_ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false
Thanks Lucas Kavner!
Naughty Sessions
by Simone Sanguine
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Missing the Tease
I’m
just rounding out my first week as a student in Florence, Italy. I’ve taken in
a lot: new people, new food, new customs, a new routine, and new personal and
academic agendas. I actually could not believe the beauty of what I was seeing
at times: popular, olive, and fig trees spanning acres; centuries-old relics to
a time when the city was, like much of Italy, under papal control; sun-soaked
gardens hosting a variety of seasonal fruits and vegetables; and old, narrow
streets that have supported the likes of Dante, Michelangelo, and Boccaccio.That’s not
even mentioning the people, a surprisingly diverse blend of old-rooted Italians
and emigrants from the Indians subcontinent, the Middle East, and parts of
Africa, to name a few, all bustling about the city by day and talking in the
animated tones which characterize the Italian language.
I will
admit that in all of this novelty and beauty, I feel some nostalgia for home,
for the city I have singularly dubbed as the greatest in the world. I miss the
have-it-your-way approach to life in New York, where just about anything is
available at any time, any day of the week. I miss the people I’ve come to know
and love. And of course, I miss burlesque, which is sadly lacking in Florence.
It took
a bit of a comical, “a-ha” moment for me to realize just how true the latter
is. I was watching a ceremonial Italian flag show put on by my school, and
amongst all the polite clapping and occasional over-zealous cheers, I was
suddenly struck by the thought, “This would be a lot more interesting if he
[particularly good-looking guy who had taken center stage with his
flag-twirling routine] took his clothes off.” I started laughing right in the middle
of the ceremony.
Not
that ALL entertainment has to have stripping involved… okay, come on, it DOES
make things a lot more interesting. That’s not just a testament to the fact
that I’ve probably seen near a thousand burlesque acts, right? I’d like to think
it’s just a basic truth that nudity is always more interesting, but maybe my
opinion is a teensy bit skewed.
Lili St. Cyr's famous bathtub routine
- photo from papierdoll.net
Along
the same vein, I keep managing to sneak away from the onslaught of academic
readings I have on my plate to the saucier, sexier realm of burlesque, at least
on paper. Currently indulging my new obsession with burlesque memoirs and
auto/biographies is Kelly DiNardo’s Gilded
Lili: Lili St. Cyr and the Striptease Mystique. Today I read a wonderful
passage that I thought should be shared, about the still-contentious pull
between feminists (and many other, for that matter) looking to classify
striptease as either degrading or empowering for women:
When
burlesque first began, female performers used their bodies and their voices to
poke fun at the upper class. By the turn of the century women were silenced.
“The power of burlesque language to call attention to society’s categories and
hierarchies based on the fact that it came out of the mouths of women,” wrote
Robert C. Allen in Horrible Prettiness.
“As the burlesque performer’s mouth became the only part of her body that did
not move in the cooch dance, the shimmy, the striptease, she literally and
figuratively lost her voice… Without a voice it was all the more difficult for
that body to reclaim its subjectivity.”
Certainly.
as Allen pointed out, a woman’s voice onstage commanded attention and held
power. But a voiceless woman was not a powerless woman. “A woman taking off her
clothes is a magic act. It really does activate some primal, elemental,
universal principle,” feminist commentator Camille Paglia told A&E for the
cable channel’s documentary It’s
Burlesque. “We look. We don’t really listen. We listen to the music, but
that puts us in a trance state. I really do think there’s a mystique of women
taking off their clothes that feminist discourse has never really caught up to.
It isn’t about women degrading herself, exposing herself, becoming a piece of
meat. It’s something quite different. It’s woman actually being elevated to
goddess, which is why she must stop talking. It’s beyond words. It’s beyond the
reach of language or logic.”
I find
it incredibly alleviating that the current wave of feminism is willing to
embrace the work of the stripper now as that of a lowly and degrading last resort,
but as a profession that has the potential to uplift and empower a woman while
she demands, and is granted, respect and appreciation. Previously this was not
the case: ideas of femininity during the suffragette movement, for example,
were largely centered around the chaste, heavily garbed, loyal wife, who may be
involved in timely affairs outside the home but whose place was ultimately
alongside her bread-winning husband. A woman who took off her clothes was even
conceived as being injurious to the women’s suffrage movement; apparently a
reduction in the clothing was tantamount to a reduction in credibility. This,
ironically, represents a kind of misogyny all its own. Would a woman need to
feel ashamed of showing her body in order to stake out a respectable place in
the world?
Feminists
like Paglia are increasingly answering with a proud and confident “No!” They
are not alone – as the burlesque movement continues to grow in New York,
showgoers will follow. It helps that burlesque is, as I often hear it, “cool.”
Happily, there are a considerable amount of dedicated, more – shall we say,
enlightened – members of burlesque audiences; people who know what it’s about,
and go there for the right reasons. They – both men and women – are of course
there to have a good time. They’re there to oogle at the beautiful performers,
be inspired, surprised, and turned on by them, but they know what would
constitute crossing a line. That’s all
good news to me, and evidence that striptease is increasingly shedding its
stigma while still keeping it sexy.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
It Takes a Gypsy
It Takes a Gypsy
I have
to remind myself where I am. I get this feeling every time. It isn’t
appropriate to have this reaction on an Amtrak train. My body won’t listen. I can
feel my heart beat heavy, the hairs on my arms pulled taut. I know it’s coming –
I can feel the weight of her words as they approach the closing lines. The
gravity of conclusions. Stories that change your mind, your knowledge, your
inspiration. Inevitably I will react with a wave of emotions.
I don’t
finish a lot of books.
As I read
the closing pages of Gypsy: a Memoir,
I can’t help but feeling that I’ve fallen just a little bit in love with Gypsy
Rose Lee. I’m not terribly unique in this respect. Her self-written story is
composed in the style which leaves more to be wanted – not a surprising feat
for this burlesque icon, the reigning queen of the scene nationally and abroad
in the early and mid 1900s, who travelled the world while headlining shows,
making movies, making jaws drop and intimates tingle, and pulling in the kind
of money that would rival today’s Hollywood Starlets. Her legend has made her a
forever figure for burlesque aficionados and performers, and I am just another figure
on the list.
It is
clear from chapter to chapter that Gypsy does Gypsy. We find in Gypsy traces of
her ruthless and insufferable, yet undeniably tenacious and indomitable mother,
whose take-no-bull approach to show business provides us with timeless lessons
not only about being a woman on the stage, but about being a woman in general.
Gypsy was a woman who often stood near-nude, but never stood vulnerable; not an
easy feat in the mid 20th century.
Gypsy
avoids the kind of philosophizing and emotional purging that can make readers
lost. She tells her story and lets us attach these extras. In fact, we sometimes
have to wonder if she wrote her words with as straight a face as she would lead
us to imagine. The tale of June’s desertion of the family and the business at age
thirteen, or of her Mother’s continuous, improvised retelling of their life’s history, or of the constant rejection she
faced as an awkward-looking child both on and off the stage – all of this is
told to us factually. However, laced into her terseness is the powerful message
“It was what it was.” Certainly it made her into what she eventually became,
which was, as she says in her closing words, “everything in the world a girl
could ask for…” The fact that this is a quote from her Mother followed by an
ellipsis has to make us wonder, though…
This is
not to say that there are not moments of intense emotional retelling, which is
quite often the definition of a memoir. She makes explicit her feelings of
clumsiness and rejection when her young love for Stanley goes unrequited; of
her intense guilt and sadness after her monkey’s death by strangulation; of her
discomfort during her reunion with her Mother’s runaway husband, Gordon.
There
are moments of omission which actually speak for themselves. After reading this
book, we are left in the dark as to Gypsy’s love life, the birth and upbringing
of her son, Erik, and her battle with lung cancer which eventually took her
life. The message seems to be “Keep out.” I’m sure she had more than enough
speculation and judgment on her personal life.
One
thing seems clear to me by the time I’ve reached the closing pages: Gypsy Rose
Lee was one smart stripper. Her success is self-evident, her appeal undeniable,
her fame ever-lasting. Anyone can and everyone does take off their clothes, but
achieving those accomplishments, my
friends, takes one special hunk of gray matter.
Well,
that’s not to deny that she was a damned good-looking girl.
An
exceptional amount of stigma surrounded Gypsy’s work then, and still attaches
itself to the various forms of sex work today. Is it a crime for a beautiful,
intelligent woman to use what she’s got? Laughably and literally, it can be.
Her
son, Erik, gives us this quote from his mother:
[Looking out on her garden from what
would be her death bed]
“Isn’t that a magnificent rose?
It just proves what I’ve always said: ‘You don’t need to be religious to believe in God, just observant.’”
Friday, July 20, 2012
Femaffinity
Femaffinity
A
couple of weeks ago, I escaped to the great wild North that is Buffalo, NY to
visit my hometown, which is of no importance to me other than its association
with family, my soul sister, my favorite tattoo shop, and some seriously
superfluous grass (legal variety). As far as roots go, mine are about as essential
as anyone else’s; but I had found myself flowering up in surprisingly different
hues in contrast with my environment. With the help of a couple of gentle pairs
of hands (my parents) and a shiny little garden hoe (my parents’ money), I
pulled myself up and out of Buffalo to replant myself in New York. At the mere
suggestion of moving back north, I would grip my cozy new ground with stunning
tenacity for a flower. Hell, no, I wasn’t going back. That will never change.
What
did change was my appreciation for that old garden – that small, weird suburb
where the only thing more exciting than the burgeoning malls were the llamas
that lived around the corner (yes, llamas). During my short weekend visit, I
had a beautiful heart-to-heart with Mom. We talked about girly stuff: work,
health, boys, and, more excitingly, girls.
“I see pretty
a woman, at work or something, and I can appreciate her. I can’t help but think
that, we women, we’re all in this together.”
I grew
wide-eyed as she said this. I had never heard her talk like this. It couldn’t
have been more than a month ago when I had said the exact same words when going
off on a small philippic about burlesque. At that moment I thought, “Oh, now this makes sense.” That admiration
for and affinity with each and every burlesque dancer I’ve ever seen on stage,
that must have come from somewhere.
In a
recent interview, Little
Motown remarked on that same quality: “It’s given me community, more than
anything else. I think it attracts really cool and supportive people…. I don’t
think that any other thing ever has as much support as burlesque. I want
everyone who goes on the stage to do really well, and they want me to do well.
And we want to celebrate each other.” Hell, yeah.
Even so
far as it is a Do-It-Yourself scene, New York City burlesque is a community of
co-performers. Variety certainly is the spice of a burlesque show, along with a
decent amount of tassel twirling, tease, and stripping. It is never a one-woman
or one-man show. Yet at the same time, each performer quite literally gets her
chance in the spotlight where a good audience will whistle, shout, and purr for
him or her. It’s theater with a welcome twist. Politeness is frowned upon, so
no need to sit still and quiet in your seat for a couple hours or more. Of
course, there are rules to be followed, such as don’t talk through the act, don’t
take unauthorized pictures, don’t text, and don’t touch – the performers or
yourself. It is theater, after all.
But
when it comes down to it, New York City burlesque exists on such a spectrum
that people from many walks of life can come down and enjoy a show. There are
divey bars, underground secret backrooms, hotel theaters, and VIP-lofted venues.
I know I do not speak alone when I say that I am happy to see burlesque
widening further into the “upscale” end of the spectrum. The reason is simple:
while the cheap shows can be incredibly fun and interactive, the more costly
shows give performers a well-deserved payment. As the DIY component is a huge
part of the fun to be had, it can also be both time and money consuming to put
together an act, complete with costume, make-up, choreography, music, and/or
concept. Madame
Rosebud pointed out something equally as crucial: “If people pay more for
something, they’ll treat it better.”
As I
near the half-way point in my project on New York City burlesque, I can say
that I’m happy with the overall direction it’s taken, and look forward to
meeting, talking with, and learning from other performers over the next few
weeks. Next up is World Famous *BOB*’s Coney
Island Drag Race, and an ensuing interview. Gold, gold, gold my friends.
Friday, July 6, 2012
A Night with The Sophisticates
A Night with The Sophisticates
It is
June 29th at the Metropolitan Room, 11:30 pm. I walk in from the
heat of the city hoping for sweet A/C relief, but find none. I give Bastard
Keith and Madame Rosebud big sweaty hugs, happy to be here at their production
of The Sophisticates. They tell me that this is the first time there’s been
stripping at the Metropolitan Room. The Asian family I share a table with does
not exactly look like a bunch of burlesque aficionados. I probe them a little
bit, asking them what brings them out to the show tonight. They have a living
social deal. They’ve never seen burlesque before, and as one of the men in the
family tells me, he “doesn’t know what to expect.”
“Boobs,”
I answer, nodding. “Boobs.”
“Oh,”
he says, his expression barely faltering. There is a pause. “Maybe I should be
sitting in that seat,” gesturing to
the chair which faces the stage.
“That’s
the spirit!” I laugh. “Just go with it.”
I
have to take the advice myself. I can’t help but think, for $30 admission and a
two-drink minimum, I should have my own personal fan in front of me. I should
have my own personal human fanner. I set that idea aside and drink my $15
bellini instead. Looking around, I would say that the room is about 2/3 full.
The VIP seats, which go for a whopping $115 per person, are maybe 1/3 full. I
am hopeful that tonight’s performers might be getting compensation that is on
par with the amount of labor, art, preparation, and presentation that they put
into their acts, and I am glad if they are.
Luckily
for this family, for me, and for everyone else who is here to enjoy the show
tonight, Bastard Keith does a phenomenal job keeping the show running smoothly.
I’ve said time and time again that the job of the host is utterly vital –
tonight is evidence of that. Before I get into a rundown of the night’s
delicious line-up of performers, I want to point out that the host is a
performer, too. The difference is that his/her role is the most dynamic, as it
depends on a sort of dialogue between the audience and the host. This dialogue
is both spoken and unspoken, and is created on a moment-to-moment basis. The
quickness, charisma, and resiliency that this role requires is no laughing
matter. I have seen many hosts’ jokes fall flat to the floor, many audiences
unengaged, and the result is a show that is missing the kind of satisfying
energy that a show can have, granted
that all other elements are intact. I will include some detailed bits of
entertainment which Bastard Keith dishes out throughout the show, to illustrate
some - sometimes surprising - examples of how the host’s role can be performed
smoothly and effectively at a burlesque show.
The
venue, located on West 22nd street, is literally located between the
charmingly grungier, more casual venues downtown, where burlesque can usually
be found, and the uptown venues which feature the more expensive Broadway and
off-Broadway entertainment. Remember that burlesque is theatre, as Bonnie Dunn
articulated during our interview. While I still think that $30 + a two-drink
minimum is pushing it, I think that burlesque performers certainly deserve a
stake in middle price range entertainment. Though the stage is a bit small, and
the room is initially hot as hell, the venue and the paying customers are on
par with the goal of bringing burlesque “up higher” into the realm of
acceptable theatre entertainment.
After
a charming and rather physically-demanding rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “I’m
Your Man” Bastard Keith tells the audience that this is “The first time there’s
going to be tits at the Metropolitan Room.” He continues on with his lesson on
how to behave at a burlesque show, or “burletiquette,” as he calls it, which
essentially gives the audience permission to let their inner construction
worker come to the surface. Without
further ado, he introduces the first performer to the little stage – “the girl
who fell to earth” and the co-producer of tonight’s show, Madame Rosebud.
It’s
sort of hard for me to describe the persona Rosebud has on during this first
act – pretty as a picture is too cliché, while a piece-by-piece description is
banal. She was so pretty that I hesitated to hug her for fear of wrinkling or
smudging some of the perfect. Her act is flirty and sensuous, slow and
deliberate over the course of two classical jazz numbers: Her eyes are acute and darkly-outlined beneath
a 1940s-inspired face net veil. The eyes are an important ingredient to any
successful burlesque act, so as not to conjure up the infamous image of the
dead-eyed stripper. Another element which Rosebud utilizes is the simple but
often-overlooked trick of flirting with ones clothes throughout the disrobe – Rosebud
runs her closed fist up and down her thigh-high, licks the bottom of her shoe, and uses her face
net to cover her breasts before revealing herself to the audience. The act is a
neo-classic piece which speaks to burlesque’s intertwining history with that of
the pin-up. And man is it easy on the eyes.
After
stage kitten Stella Chuu picks up the “stripper droppings”, Maine Attraction
hits the stage with another neo-classic piece. She moves well to the tune of “Minnie
the Moocher,” playfully inviting the audience to sing along. Her socialite
attire, complete with a stunning black gown and elbow-length gloves, is belied
by her gratuitous bumps and grinds. This reminds me of burlesque’s early days
in the States, where performers frequently parodied the well-to-do woman with
her well-to-do ways, thus making a transgressive statement about the act of “putting
on” class and high-society femininity. Maine Attraction closes the act by
unzipping her purse with her teeth, pulling out a boa made of money.
Peekaboo
Pointe comes out in a long, red, glittering dress and a face that reads, “I’ll
eat you up if you come within two feet of me.” With her soft blonde curls and
big eyes, she looks like Lili St. Cyr reincarnated, except with better body
tone. She strips out of her multi-piece dress ensemble, shaking it hotter than
the sun that day. Her movements are well-choreographed to the music, and when
she finally busts into her tassel twirling, this small audience loses it.
BB
Heart sets out to captivate us right away, coming onto the stage and immediately
dropping her robe to reveal – well, just about everything. Wearing only a
blonde, tightly curled wig, and pasties on her lady parts, BB goes into a mime
strip that’s nothing short of ingenious. I am always deeply impressed by her
artistic creativity and commitment to her persona on the stage. She “takes off”
her pretend bra, thigh highs, and gloves with real believability in her
movements. Adorably, Stella Chuu runs about the stage after the act, picking up
the imaginary stripper droppings which BB Heart did not leave behind.
After
a brief intermission which features a silly yet engaging acting competition
between three of the ladies from the audience, Maine Attraction hits the stage for
her second act. She starts out in the audience, weaving through and flirting
with spectators in her exotic, Amazon-like garb. As a dancer, she is both agile
and energetic. Though Bastard Keith had passed along the message that Maine
Attraction is “not gay today”, she
targets in on a clearly unexpecting woman in the audience, touching and
flirting with her before suddenly inverting herself right onto the woman’s lap.
I am going to let your imagination draw a picture of what this looks like. The
woman looks, well, less than stoked about this present in her face; but she
plays along as others in the crowd look on with laughter and surprise.
“Who’s
queer in the audience tonight?” asks Bastard Keith. No response. “We have a
hetero audience here. I guess I shouldn’t do my usual thing of draping my taint
on an audience member. Really, no one is queer?” One person raises both hands
and gives a cheer. “We have one queer person in the audience tonight,” says
Bastard Keith, turning to me. He smiles, “How did I know you were queer? Was it
the Mohawk and punk suspenders?” He turns to a man seated front and center. “I
told Rosebud I would keep it classy… Oh, it’s okay to tea bag this gentleman
here?” The audience is exploding with laughter. The victim, er, scarific-ee,
er, however you want to think about this man, goes along with it. He knows it
is just play. He even feeds into the back-and-forth, perverse sort of banter
going on. His girlfriend finds this all wildly funny. “I’ve just opened up a
big can of worms for you both,” says our host, perhaps only half in jest.
Peekboo
Pointe returns to the stage in a stunning dress that’s made entirely of
rainbow-colored beads, complemented by a peacock-feather boa. She’s making love
to us right from the beginning, making every move with sensuous attention. The
spectators respond with hearty “woos” and “ows” and “yeeaaahs.” She shakes it
so hard that her beads move at speeds too fast for the human eye to keep up
with. Peekaboo gives us more than a pretty girl in a cool costume; she is
playful, theatrical, and, judging from the audience’s response, truly fun to
watch in action.
Bastard
Keith draws our attention to the little tidbit of clothing which all the girls
have in common tonight: the pastie. These small, plain, bejeweled or tasseled
accouterments are well-known by anyone who has been to a burlesque show or two –
they are so ubiquitous on the burlesque stage that they have become symbolic of
this art form which straddles the spectrum of entertainment somewhere between commercial
stripping and that ambiguous category called dance performance[1]. Bastard
Keith remarks that the pastie is the only thing which allows the Metropolitan
Room to keep its liquor license. Imagine that – a little piece of material which
allows booze and boobs to be in the room together! You would think that bare nipples
are actually toxic when exposed (apparently they are just figuratively toxic to
the order of society.) Moreover, the pastie defines the difference between public
decency and – gasp – indecency, for
the girls are not quite nude enough
to cause mass chaos. I’ll close that thought with a big giant question mark[2].
Back to the BB. Her great big blue fans
contrast with her bright red under things, which we get the occasional glimpse
of as she skillfully works her fans up, down, and all around her body, moving
to the rhythm of an Italian number. As she disappears and then reemerges from
behind the fans, her enthusiastic smiles are suddenly punctuated by big,
audible sobs. She quickly returns to normal. The song switches to an upbeat
tango, with BB Heart’s movements and gestures matching. After the striptease is
complete, I hear one of the women at my table say, “She’s my favorite.”
Closing
out the acts for the evening is Madame Rosebud, who has brought something quite
different to the stage in comparison with her first act. Rather than starting
out with a leisurely, classic flare, she is immediately moving in ways that are
quicker, edgier, and more commanding, making it impossible to look away. She
begins the strip very early on, her movements and facial gestures matching the
tone of “Rock Me All Night Long.” The crowd gives an “ohhh” as she slaps her
glove on one of the tables, stripping down to reveal a black lacy one-piece
undergarment. She’s working the crowd, sticking boobs in faces, spitting on the
carpet, seamlessly working her way out of her clothes.
Did
these four ladies give us a show! I have to say that the price with drinks was
a little steep, but all in all the evening was fun, sexy, intimate, and
hilarious. When all is said and done, Bastard Keith commends the Metropolitan
Room for “taking a huge risk” in allowing its first-ever burlesque show to take
place tonight. And may I just add: I love my job. When I asked the man sitting
across from me what he thought, he answered, in a way that felt oddly and
indirectly rewarding, “I liked it. It was surprisingly artistic. I will be
coming to more shows like this.” As the audience filed out, people from both
the VIP and general admission seats approached Bastard Keith, genuinely
thankful and thoroughly entertained. The moral of tonight’s story is, if it’s
produced by Bastard Keith and Rosebud, dish out a couple bucks and experience a
taste of New York City burlesque. You won’t be disappointed.
[1] Burlesque’s
face and place in the entertainment industry is a whole other topic in itself, one
that divides both spectators and performers. This is, not surprisingly, also a
touchy subject, but it is one that I intend to deal with later on in my
project.
[2] I
am looking to learn more about the history and psychology behind the pastie.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Glitter in the Rough
Glitter in the Rough
At this point, anyone who has been reading my posts and
pages, ought to have a taste for what I am doing. As I state in my introductory
page, Hey SS, Why are Your Sessions So Naughty?,
I am not a burlesque performer. Will I do it one day? I think it is almost
inevitable. Here is why:
When I began to do my fieldwork about a year and a half ago,
I knew nothing. Not one thing. I had barely talked with five performers beyond dishing
out standard compliments on their acts. I didn’t have much literature under my
belt that directly or indirectly related to the New York burlesque scene. The
first “burlesque show” I went to was an accident; I had no intention of
observing and learning from this community over the long term, nor would I ever
have thought that, just over a year later, I would be applying for and
receiving a grant to share the lessons that burlesque can teach with academics,
burlesque admirers, my mom, and maybe one day many more people. If you can’t
tell, this blog post is about to get into the confessional mode.
I have to admit that I am in love with burlesque.
I love the venues - small and divey where almost anything
goes, or large and “upscale” where there are VIP seats and sold out, minimum-service
tables. I love the theatricality and the costuming; the way burlesque
performers can create and share a fantasy persona. I love the dancing, the
choreography, the slow reveal. I love and appreciate a great host. But more
than anything else, I love the women on the stage.
Watching burlesque and thinking about its history, about how
many performers have and continue to defy and define gender performances, either
explicitly or subtly, consciously or not, I continue to gain new insights and
ideas. I am constantly meeting up with these along the road to a more
comprehensive view of burlesque as I have witnessed it over the months. This
past week I (re)learned a very important, timely lesson. It was one that I had admittedly
swept aside, suspended in my approach to understanding the culture and
community. The lesson was simple: in the verbatim words of my high school U.S.
History teacher, “It’s always about money.” I carried that lesson with me. I
applied it. I used it to understand a
lot of the “whys” that have come up for me. It was often an easy answer to
things that seemed very complex.
What I had failed to do was to apply this lesson to
burlesque. Perhaps I was being romantic. In fact, I know that I was. I
envisioned burlesque as a fairy tale space; a land inside a snow globe, where
everything glitters and looks pretty. I thought, even though it isn’t real, it’s real enough. Certain combinations of glamour and fantasy can take
us there, so that even the audience is partaking in this world. I can think of
no better example of this than the Burlesque Hall of Fame Weekend, which I was
lucky enough to visit in the summer of 2011. There we were at the New Orleans
Hotel in Las Vegas, stuck in the middle of the desert, a group of devout
journalists, photographers, fans and performers dressed up, dressed down,
dressed in barely anything at all. Even in Vegas a bunch of burlesque
performers get some hard stares: “What are
you, what is this?” I remember a time
when, after Le Scandal, I was sitting
with several performers at a bar when a man approached the table and asked, “Are
you in a play?” Madame Rosebud, Bastard Keith, Trixie Little, the Evil Hate
Monkey, and Minnie Tonka just about shared the same facial expression –
something between pitied amusement and mild annoyance. When the inquirer
eventually walked away, Rosebud gave a little grin, “A burlesque play.” In a way, it’s like an elaborate game of dress-up,
with roles, directions, costumes, and a plot…
As an audience member, anthropology student, enthusiast, fan,
and sometimes friend at a burlesque show, I play a certain role. I am not there
to critique an act and pick a performer apart. I am there to interpret what I
see with minor and sometimes major clarification from what I am told about what
I see. This clarification may come from the performers, from other audience
members, from retrospect, and/or from the directly and indirectly relevant
texts I read. I, too, am playing a role, and it is one that I fully enjoy. I
believe that I was making the mistake of wanting the ideal more than the thing
itself; of romanticizing what I had witnessed. Is burlesque romantic? I think
yes, and it should be. It would not be burlesque if no one had stage names,
elaborate costumes, and choreographed strip-teases; it would be real life.
There would be nothing for me to write about here. I maintain that burlesque is
a space for imaginations and, more importantly, an agreement between
imaginations. A good audience-host-performer relationship is based on the
consensual understanding that what is going on is a show, a spectacle, something worth spending twenty bucks on so that
everyone can enjoy a little escape from boring, and perhaps even walk away with
inspiration.
However, the break from real life is not always clean and
pretty and, to re-take up what I learned in high school, money is important. I don’t
think that anyone gets into burlesque to make it big; though I could be wrong,
and I wouldn’t doubt that the desire for fame and fortune, or at least
appreciation and security, is very real
for many a burlesque performer. On an even more basic level, a girl’s gotta eat.
That isn’t sexy, that’s real life; and though I’ve had more than one performer tell
me that burlesque dancers are chronically broke, the idea of the performers’ daily
grind gets swept under a thick rug. This does not make her financial worries, goals,
or rent any less real.
Even as burlesque can celebrate femininity, sexuality, and
subversion, with performers inviting us into a space where meanings can be
construed, flipped, fit, or recrafted, OR where we can go to simply enjoy the
aesthetic pleasures of the human form, there are everyday factors in the mix.
For a minute, it saddened me to think of the mundane and even bleak aspects of
performers’ lives; but I think that now, when I look back on the past week, I
appreciate burlesque even more. There is no such thing as a true escape from
reality. In one way or another, the everyday must meet with the fantasy. What
it will look like, how it will move, and the effects it will have on those who
are there to witness – that is where the fun comes in.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Beach or Bust: Past and Presence on Coney Island
Bushwick Burlesque: Beach or Bust - Past and Presence on Coney Island.
Tags: Body-positivity,
burlesque community, booty bounce, subversion
The
room is painted with the kinds of colors that are reminiscent of a bad horror
story set at a circus. The staff is friendly and witty and small, with a young
dark-haired girl between the diner-style counter and the coolers full of beer.
As patrons stroll in gradually, the tables fill up with people who are waiting
for the show to begin. It is 8 pm. I am sipping on the world’s best Folger’s coffee,
so I am told. 8:30 rolls around and I look curiously at the admission stamp on
my hand: A hot dog with a mermaid tail in a bow tie, eating a hot dog. Yes, this
is Coney Island, and I wouldn’t ask for anything different. The show is about
to begin.
“Ladies
and Gentlemen, please proceed to the back for Bushwick Burlesque: Beach or Bust!” One by one people quickly file into the back auditorium, where a
medium-sized stage is lit up in red and blue. Over the course of this show, the
crowd will grow to about 30, with a surprising array of demographics
represented: black, white, Latin, men and women, young and old, all have come
out to see the raunchy, artful spectacle which burlesque veteran Darlinda Just
Darlinda co-produces with boyfriend Scary Ben and Heather Loop. The venue,
located on Surf Ave. of the historically carnivalesque Coney Island, combined
with the experience and audacity of tonight’s performers, promises a show that
will speak to burlesque’s roots in the exotic, the side-show-y, the risqué. Booties
will bounce. Genitals will show. Cheeks will flush. Check your Sunday School
lessons at the door; they are no match for Heather Loop’s ass tassels.
Scary Ben rolls out the show with a strip from his street clothes and a reverse
strip into his hosting gear, giving us a hearty glance of his jockstrap
before transforming into a comically stern-faced, 1940s/hipster fusion host. He
introduces the first performer, Fancy Feast, who enters the stage wearing full
college-graduation attire. The red glitter-encrusted seams and fishnets peeking
out from underneath her cape immediately suggest the parodic elements of her
act; and sure enough, Fancy Feast strips down out of cape, hat, and red corset to
reveal the wrinkled diploma hiding in her bosom, which she proceeds to tear
into pieces. Heather Loop gives us a double dose of scrumptious acts – first was
her purple bike act, in which she literally rides the thing every which way before
finally figuring out that she needs to strip out of her tight purple dress and
corset in order to ride the thing properly; but not before she sits on the front tire of and peddles on the
bike upside down. “Does anyone think they could do that?” asks Scary Ben
afterwards. Nope. Probably wouldn’t know how to wedge myself off the tire.
The
whole act – from her interest in riding the bike, to her struggle to ride it
efficiently while still maintaining the garments of a “proper lady”, to her
eventual disposal of her clothes in order to get on and ride the bike – were oddly
in sync with a segment of Pin-up Grrrls I
had just read on my way to Coney Island. Maria Elena Buszek relates the ways in
which bicycles were a means of literal and figurative mobility for women during
first-wave feminism in the late 19th century: “Bicycling… was a
loaded activity clearly associated with feminism at the turn of the century: from
the unfussy dress that the sport required… to the sexual connotations of the
machine itself, young women riders were seen as advertising their
progressivism"(page 103) Shedding the restrictive dress, corset, and garters which were
once staples of feminine attire, Heather Loop finds that she is free from the
bonds of ideals of the “true” or “proper” woman.
Her
second act- oh, man, her second act. Heather Loop comes out in Daisy Dukes-type
garb, complete with a plaid button up top, exposed mid-section, and ultra-short
jean shorts. I don’t know about you, but I had to take a deep breath when I
realized that shorts cut so that your ass-crease shows were an actual thing,
and not just a “mistake” that girl made when she bought a size down. They’ve
even got a name- Cheeky Shorts. Cheeky Shorts! Okay, fine, a little crease peek
never got anyone killed – maybe. But I appreciated Heather’s hyper-exaggerated
version of the Cheeky Short. They were so short they seemed parodic. The most
impressive part was that the more booty bouncing she accomplished, the more the
shorts began to resemble Brazilian-cut underwear more than anything else. How’s
that for a version of the Cheeky Short? Did I mention she was also wearing ass
tassels? For those of you are burly-q
newbies, ass tassels are a version of nipple pasties which are placed on the
butt cheeks and have fringy tassels that swirl around, and around, and around. And
up and down. And whichever way Heather Loop’s booty bouncing takes us.
Darlinda
and Scary Ben are lovers. Burlesque lovers. Burlesque lovers are of a different
breed. And since this is their show – well, you better expect something as
off-color as the color combinations here. After Ben relays his feelings of
sadness, loneliness, and horniness during the many times when Darlinda has been
out and about doing cool burlesque things all over the planet, the two reenact their
passionate reuniting. The several-minute long skit is meant to be hilarious,
but I think that a lot of people laughed out of comic relief, if they laughed
at all. I personally got a kick out of Darlinda’s rainbow g-string which matched
Scary Ben’s rainbow jockstrap . But as all good things must come to an end, these
accouterments also had to go. Thus we have a totally nude couple on the stage.
I think only the older couple next to me left – I was too busy laughing to pay
much attention.
Darlinda
Just Darlinda stuns the crowd with the first of two brilliant acts: her lotion
ritual. She comes out in a baby girl pink towel, her face poised with the kind
of virginal innocence we know from Sandy of Grease
– before her much more exciting turn into America’s baddest high school chick. Darlinda
removes the pink towels, first from her head to let down a shock of wavy red
hair, then from her body to reveal the kind of curves which sculptors,
painters, and figure drawers have long
attempted to describe. The easy strip down to nothing shows us more than just a
stunning figure – Darlinda radiates the kind of confidence and body-positivity which
turns so many women onto burlesque.
Her
second act presents us with a more provocative, political message. A
blonde-wigged Darlinda enters the stage, dresses in a sparkling red dress and a
huge, over-enthusiastic smile, holding an American flag in each hand. She
throws off the blonde wig to let down her wild red locks, loses the flags, and
appears a freer, less patriotic, sexier woman. But the transformation comes to
a halt as she strips down and pulls out a piece of paper that was tucked
between her legs. She pulls it out slowly, expression slowly erupting into
horror as she unravels the paper to reveal: the Republican elephant. The meaning of this act is made more explicit later on; as Scary Ben told me, "It is about expelling the painful and sickening propaganda of patriotism and politics from the body. She is commenting on the Republican party's current war on women and controversy about vaginal reproduction." At the end of the act, Darlinda tears the paper to shreds.
When
asking new performers what got them into burlesque, the number one reason is to
increase confidence and body-positive sentiments. This is a way for women of
every shape, size, and shade to regain a hold over her body image, which we
know extends deep into the human psyche. A healthy body image creates positive
sentiments towards oneself and towards others; rejecting the tyranny of a narrowly
defined range of beauty allows women to define an image of beauty that works for them. They can then project this
image into the world by the way they dress and comport themselves. Burlesque
dancers do this every time they step on the stage. Best of all, each of these
images is a welcome part of the community; indeed, the “identity” of the NYC community
itself, if there ever could be a such a clean way to describe it, would be a
group of men and women who welcome the exploration and manifestation of various
sexualities.
Fem
Appeal does an act in which she pays tribute to Pam Grier's Foxy Brown and Coffy. Fem fills the role of a strong, literally kick-ass woman from the blaxploitation era.
I had seen her perform some time ago doing her act “Spooky,” in which she juxtaposes
a silky white dress with her face painted to look like she’s going to eat
yours. (Not that that happens in real life… Well, her act was before the
incident, anyway.) I truly enjoy almost anything that happens on the stage, but
I have to say that I really appreciate it when burlesque gets subversive, edgy,
challenging, relevant. Along with variety, these are the links between
burlesque of today with burlesque that date back to Lydia Thompson and the
British Blondes.*
The
array of performers here tonight is evidence of the fact that burlesque –
especially New York City burlesque, with its Do-It-Yourself feel – is an all-bodies
space, with types ranging from androgynous to curvy. Miss Fem Appeal, with her
androgynous looks and comical inversion of gender roles, performs in tandem
with Diety Delgado, whose make-up and costuming render her almost extraterrestrial,
beyond gender. Both of these performers work along the similar thread of
challenging the audience with unfamiliar performances of femininity and
masculinity. Deity’s white-painted face appears stoic as she pulls on a cigarette;
her robotic movements hardly rustle her paper dress. Comparing this to the
super-dynamo quality of Heather Loop’s booty-bouncing, or to Darlinda Just
Darlinda’s symbolic triumph over the Republicans' War Against Women, and
we see how the tradition of variety endures on the burlesque stage, both in the
types of bodies and the tone of acts on the stage.
In
addition, all of the acts were, at least one point, downright hilarious. There
are so many ways that burlesque performers make us laugh. Whether people in the
audience realized it or not, often what they were laughing were the everyday elements
of femininity which the dancers have appropriated for use in their acts: a woman
wearing make-up that does not match the rest of her skin (Deity Delgado), a girl
wearing shorts so short that almost her entire butt shows, ass tassels and all
(Heather Loop), a woman who sheds her
Miss American appeal (literally and figuratively letting her hair down) only to find that an outside entity (the Republican party) is attempting to regulate and legislate her body and what she does with it. When the performers are on the stage, these motifs are rendered comical and entertaining. This does not mean that they are not real, not serious, or not painful.
I was really excited to meet up with Darlinda, Scary Ben, and Fem Appeal
after the show. More to come on that soon! Darlinda Just Darlinda, Scary Ben, and Heather Loop put on
Bushwick Burlesque every other Tuesday at The Morgan. I look forward to seeing
and learning from these veteran performers in the future. I’m especially
excited to meet with Fem Appeal before her Monday show at Bar A. Come back for
more show-write ups, which I’ll be cranking out like baby mice from the nest
under my fridge (I swear the exterminator actually wants these things to breed).
I know what I’ll be dreaming of tonight:
Heather Loop’s booty bounce. You’d have to see it to understand. Happy Summer
Solstice!
* For more on this segment of burlesque history, Robert
Allen’s Horrible Prettiness is a very worthwhile read.
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