Sunday, 20 January 2013
Showgirl Art #11
An artwork inspired by comerce, consumerism, the glamour of cars and embodied by girls in catsuits performing a Busby Berkeley-esque kaledoscopic routine. Roman Vasseur's Franchise
Sunday, 17 June 2012
Showgirl Art #10
Andrea Fraser takes up the position
of the stripping woman in her
performance Official Welcome, in which she
addresses an assembled art audience giving an introduction to ‘the artist
Andrea Fraser’. The scripted
dialogue, in which she performs ‘artist’ and ‘supporter’ quotes a number of
collectors’ and artists’ real introductions and acceptance speeches, all delivered whilst
Frasers strips naked and then clothes herself again by the end of the
performance:
Artist
Yeah,
the art world likes “bad girls.”
But if you tell the truth and people don’t want to hear the truth. If you’re honest about how stupid and
fucked over life is, you end up in the tabloids. I don’t go looking for it. It just comes in a big stinking tidal wave.
Removing
bra, then shoes, then thong.
I’m
used to it. It’s boring.
[…]
Supporter
Well,
thank you. Thank you for your
dedication, for your vision, for your life. I think we all must dare, as artists do, to break free of
the past and to create a better future, rooted in the values that never
change. That’s the great lesson
our artists teach us.[1]
Fraser’s work can be understood within the
context ‘Institutional Critique’, as pioneered by the artists Hans Haacke and
Michael Asher. Within this
positioning her work takes on an intellectually engaged examination of what we
expect a contemporary artist to give us; she subverts what we think art is by
conflating the site of the artwork, the museum, the collector, the critic and
the performer. Can we be sure
where they all begin and end?
The project 'Untitled' is also really worth looking up. Fraser's work is always smart and fearless and I have incredible respect for her practice.
[1] Andrea Fraser and ed. Alexander
Alberro (2005) Museum Highlights: The
Writings of Andrea Fraser, Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press.
Showgirl Art #9
I feel I shall have to transition from photography and video and into live art and performance practices to really continue this list. Before I do, I shall just list women photographers who in some way address the Showgirlian.
Elinor Carucci is a photographer by day, but a belly dancer by night. She's documented her dancing life in the book and series 'Diary of a Dancer'. A well observed project in which we see the types of venues, audiences, costumes, dance moves, preparations and the come down following performing. Its documentary and a diary. Just through pictures a complex narrative is told. With lots of sequins.
Katharina Bosse's book New Burlesque is a fabulous collection of portraits of New Burlesque dancers. The dancers look fabulous in clothes the look like they could be performance costume, or in some cases, sassy day wear. The pose and flirt with the camera knowingly, in domestic spaces, corners of cafes and deserts - nowhere you'd expect to find them. They are there, at the beginning of this new movement, carving out a space for themselves. Its a joyous book.
Elinor Carucci is a photographer by day, but a belly dancer by night. She's documented her dancing life in the book and series 'Diary of a Dancer'. A well observed project in which we see the types of venues, audiences, costumes, dance moves, preparations and the come down following performing. Its documentary and a diary. Just through pictures a complex narrative is told. With lots of sequins.
Katharina Bosse's book New Burlesque is a fabulous collection of portraits of New Burlesque dancers. The dancers look fabulous in clothes the look like they could be performance costume, or in some cases, sassy day wear. The pose and flirt with the camera knowingly, in domestic spaces, corners of cafes and deserts - nowhere you'd expect to find them. They are there, at the beginning of this new movement, carving out a space for themselves. Its a joyous book.
Jo Ann Callis's practice spans decades. I saw an exhibition of her work at the Getty Center, Los Angeles and I made loads of notes as I wanted to review the show for a magazine (I didn't in the end). But you know, I almost feel that to write about Callis's work is a redundant gesture. I don't think they need to much introduction. I adore her photographs and I love looking at them. Much of her work is concerned with femininity and the experience of being a woman. Just take a browse round her website. Look out for 'Woman Twirling' and 'Performance'. She taught me when I was at CalArts, and she was just had so much style, I would wear any of her outfits.
Katy Grannan makes portraits of people who respond to her newspaper adverts. Much of her work early photographs were of teenage girls, naked, who had responded to her requests.
Showgirl Art #8
To reduce Sophie Calle's down to just the work she did stripping is a sin. However, this is what I shall do here and now. Please go look up Calle's wider practice if she's new to you.
Sophie Calle's practice is brave, transgressive, self-reflexive, uses herself. But its wider than that, its also about how we perform ourselves, how we connect to other people, how our emotions shape us. How we look, and how we are looked at. Again, total fan!
Sophie Calle's practice is brave, transgressive, self-reflexive, uses herself. But its wider than that, its also about how we perform ourselves, how we connect to other people, how our emotions shape us. How we look, and how we are looked at. Again, total fan!
Showgirl Art #7
In feature film Viva artist/filmmaker Anna Biller constructed a recreation of a
Seventies sexploitation movie.[1] The film is an uncomfortable mix of
camp pastiche and truthful real-emotions storyline, which sees Barbie/Viva
going on a journey of sexual emancipation. The final scene, celebratory and sad, sees Barbie and her
friend in a down-market recreation of Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell’s number Two Little Girls from Little Rock from
the film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.[2] For Biller, the aim is to negotiate how
female desire might be represented and provoked. Most interesting to Biller are the responses she receives
from female viewers in support of the film; women can read the resistance in the
film, but she finds male viewers only see pastiche.[3]
[2] Howard Hawks, Marilyn Monroe, Jane Russell, Charles Coburn, Sol C.
Siegel, Charles Lederer, Joseph A. Fields, and Anita Loos (1953) Gentlemen Prefer Blondes [film] Beverly
Hills, CA: Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2001.
[3] I talked to Anna Biller about the film in
September 2010, LA.
Showgirl Art #6
Jemima Stehli adopted the position of the
stripper in her photographic series Strip,
in which she questioned the designation of power in the art world within a
voyeuristic framework. She stands with her back to the camera in front of
a seated male who is identified only by his job title, ‘Critic’, ‘Writer’,
‘Curator’ or ‘Dealer’. A long cable-release is visible in his hand. In each photograph Stehli is in a
different state of undress caught in the act of stripping. The precise
moment the photograph was taken during this private strip is controlled by the
seated male, his power doubled through the status of his job in the art
world. And yet, he is the pawn
within Stehli’s game. She has created the scenario; it is her concept,
her intellect, her skill, and her body that she chooses to display. She is active. The seated male is unable to not look;
he must play the stooge. The photograph registers his level of
satisfaction or discomfort: is that us, the viewer, looking at ourselves?
Showgirl Art #5
Leigh Ledare represents a transition into the frame, and a new way of approaching the showgirl. Now, my examples will be about embodying or trying out the showgirl, and thus, the following examples are about what she symbolises, how she can be used, rather than, who is she?
Let's start with two recent examples. Liz Cohen and Nikki S Lee put themselves into their photographs and literally embody the woman-as-object, but through that embodiment we have to deal with the concept of the woman-as-object having a brain. These approaches bring intelligence into the body.
Liz Cohen turns a Trabant into an El Camino, and herself from mechanic to bikini clad model posing on the car. Two kinds of body transformation.
Nikki S Lee goes native in particular social groups. The documented results show her passing as one of the gang. Amongst the groups she's become part of where exotic dancers.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bs6mlzYBY7E
It's worth pointing out, that these practices would not exist without a number of female photographers, whose work engages less with a Showgirlian impulse, but women-in-representation. So, look up, if you don't already know:
Claude Cahun
Hannah Wilkie
Cindy Sherman
Renee Cox
It's worth pointing out, that these practices would not exist without a number of female photographers, whose work engages less with a Showgirlian impulse, but women-in-representation. So, look up, if you don't already know:
Claude Cahun
Hannah Wilkie
Cindy Sherman
Renee Cox
Showgirl Art #4
Time for something more contemporary! Here are four male image-makers (they work in photo & video) who are using the figure of the stripper as a site of exploration. They show a fascination with the stripper but also work to expand our understanding of who she is and what she does.
Philip Lorca DiCorcia creates portraits that reinvigorate the form. He does more than portraits, actually, and his photographs always command my attention. He created a series of photographs of pole-dancers in action. I sense Lorca DiCorcia's admiration and attempt to fathom the pole-dancer's milieu in the photographs.
Mainly using video Francis Alys explores social constructions. He's used a stripper combined with audio from a singer's practicing exercises, to explore where a (public) performance begins and ends. Here, he employs the stripper's performing, moving body, with it's techniques and expertise, and yet this is not directly the subject of the work, rather, the stripper is used to construct something new in the artwork.
Ok, so now things are getting really interesting. Leigh Ledare's work is just amazing and mind-blowing (and I'm jealous of his practice, not to mention the way he always finishes the work is such a sophisticated way). I've blogged about his work before, here. One day Leigh visited his Mom's and she opened the door, naked, having just got up from sex with a younger man. Thus, she announced her sexuality to her son. Mom had been a ballet dancer, exotic dancer and placed ads looking for men to look after her. She approached Leigh to document her sexuality. Leigh does so, in an intelligent, sensitive and self-reflexive way. Never leaving Mom to be the subject of a forensic, pathologised study. His practice has included photographs of Mom in flagrante, her posing for him, sometimes he is in the frame, sometimes they are having innocent fun together, other times something more erotic is inferred. Also, handwritten notes from Mom, from his younger self further contextualise their relationship. Mom resolutely takes an active role in the images. Her challenging unrepentant gaze frequently looks out at us. And Leigh's newer works trace Mom's actions, but using himself, by placing his own ads in papers and soliciting women to make photographs that objectify him. In Leigh's work, subject-object politics is always complex. Can you tell I'm a fan?
Showgirl Art #3
Another approach taken has been for documentary photographers to observe the porn industry. Their photographs serve to deconstruct the usual image-constructions of pornography and create quite mesmerising images. However, as with all documentary images, we must remain alert to the fact that the documentarist positions himself outside of what he sees, as a neutral observing. Its a position of privilege to suggest that the author-position is neutral and objective.
Larry Sultan’s project ‘The Valley’ is an exploration of the
porn industry
Timothy Greenfield-Sanders porn portraits
Showgirl Art #2
Edward Hopper’s
haunting paintings recreate Modern city life in the sparest terms. He empties out all details that do not
create the narrative he is after and what’s left in his composition have become
archetypes. The film ‘Pennies from Heaven’ consciously quotes his painting scenes to mesmerising effect.
However, a little known photo ‘Girlie
Show’ is why I’m listing Hopper.
He created the painting after visiting a burlesque show, and restaged
the entrance of the dancer with his wife.
Thus, the painting is a composite of the memory of a theatrical
encounter, and an homage to his wife with whom he had a complicated sexual
relation.
Showgirl Art #1
How does art respond to and extend our understanding of the
showgirl? I have put together some
examples that explore woman-as-object (my interest is in showgirls, but this
list is broader than that). The
idea for putting this together came to me whilst reading Katy Pilcher’s article
‘Performing in a Night-Time Leisure Venue: A Visual Analysis of Erotic Dance’. In the paper, Pilcher uses photographs
to elicit attitudes and opinions from the subjects of the photographs. It reminded me of the approaches taken
by artists: sometimes their works suggest a co-authoring between the subject
and object, sometimes the subject in the work is further objectified, sometimes
the role of the subject is embodied.
I have put this list together to try to show this breadth of
approach. The time period in which
the works are created plays a role and I also noticed gender was a significant factor
in the type of approach take. I
shall start by presenting male artists.
I’m using the term ‘artists’ somewhat loosely, as there are practices
here that belong to a photographic tradition rather than something more
conceptually and critically engaged (that also reflects conversations in
image-making, as the time-period of production also bears on the work made).
I love Walter Bird and I went to see his photographs at the archive in the National Media Museum in
Bradford. His photographs create
an undisputable, enchanting glamour.
Sometimes I find myself wanting to reject all objectifying images made
by men of women, but then, I see Walter Bird’s photographs, that are so
powerful, respectful and glamorous and I cannot maintain that critical
position. Something complex more complex is going on. Of course, in Bird's photographs, Hollywood films of the 1930s and the associated film star portraits, women are constructed as glamorous goddesses in lieu of power either in the narrative or in society (see 'Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema by Laura Mulvey). However, this construction of woman-as-image now is a very different thing - can we create a new context for the images and reject the related powerlessness women represented at the time?
I’m not going to add them to the list,
but the other image-makers that fit into this Walter Bird category of, shall we
say, glamorously subjectifiying women are: Guy Bourdain, Helmet Newton and
Howard Hawks. All very much worth
a Google.
Here's some links to Walter Bird photos:
Friday, 20 April 2012
Visiting Spearmint Rhino
Let
me start with a defence of my research.
I don’t remember when or where I was, or whom I was speaking with, but
shortly after Lana Del Rey released her single ‘Born to Die’, a female friend
told me about the video. She was saying
I had to watch it because she was ambivalent about the visual messages of the
video: ‘It ends with her limp body being carried by her boyfriend’, and she
wanted to know how I interpreted the video and her lyrics. Later that day I watched the video and
I loved it. I’ve blogged already a
little of my responses to it. I
want to just underline what I can do with my research, and why I think it has
value. I am invested in reading
images of women, recognising where she has dominion over her body, her mind,
her agency. I want to affirm and
champion these instances.
Sometimes, I question the value of simplicity of the intent of my
research. And then, the furore
created by Samantha Brick’s article in the Daily
Mail and Ashley Judd’s puffy face make me realise this is important research. We need to be able to recognise a
woman’s self-possession and dominion over herself more than ever. I am here to do that.
Until
last Friday night, I had never been to a gentleman’s club. For my research, this omission was
something I had no rationale for it; I could not justify not going. So, I went. I went to Spearmint Rhino on Tottenham Court Road with a
fellow researcher: female, looking at the histories of striptease. We had called them up beforehand to ask
if we could enter without a man.
We could, but we had to mention this conversation, take a name down, and
mention it at the door. As we drew
near to the door, a bouncer began to say ‘sorry ladies’, but we mentioned the
name, gave our names, and were allowed in. As we paid, we were told you have to sit at a table, tables
are free, but wait for the bar staff to come to you and take your order. We had to hang up our coats, as we did
so, we could hear door staff downstairs speaking through ear pieces ‘yes, I see
them they are down here’ before we were approached and taken to our table. Whilst this was happening, we felt that
our presence was a threat, a non-fit.
We
were seated very near to a raised stage area—a thrust stage/catwalk with a pole
installed. Looking around, the
light was dimmed, seats were velvet padded, I got a feeling of golds, velvets,
lowered chandeliers, boudoir, bordello.
There was a softness to the décor, plush, not hard. House music pumped and we had been
warned we were not permitted to dance, or touch. Behind us was a podium with a dancer, across the room
another podium and another dance area on top of the bar. Topless dancers gyrated slowly, coyly,
sometimes smiling, occasionally looking around, sometimes moving caught in
internalised state.
I
watched the stage and the cheeky, confident energy of the dancer, in fishnets with
a visible access hole, a trilby, long black and blonde hair. Bad girl stripper chic. An underdressed waitress took our
order. Thank god she wasn’t
wearing bunny ears or an equivalent.
She was wearing a waistcoat, hotpants and fishnets. She was really really friendly and
helped us to accustom ourselves to our surroundings. We ordered wine, which was not over-priced, surprisingly. We watched the next two dancers, both with thin long
bodies. I wondered about the
limits of the acceptable body type in this context. I looked up at the podium, and saw a dancer with a body
closer to my own size 14 body and I held my look at her, I smiled at her. She held my gaze. At some point, I could not handle the
looking any more, and I looked away.
I am in the position of a man, I can look, but I’m not used to this kind
of permission to look and so it takes some practice.
The
dancers move around the room, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, holding
hands. They sit down and chat to
the men. We are not approached. We drink our wine, and watch.
The
room has a calm to it. Men are
secreted into banquettes, booths, around tables. The architectural details and high seats meant that scanning
the room, I did not get a sense of the volume of men are in the place. At the other end of the evening, when
the club really was emptying out, I got a sense of how the atmosphere felt—I
could feel that there were less men in the club, rather than visibly see their
absence. The calm was eerie. As though desires were sated. When I was younger and I went to
nightclubs where alcohol was the main drug of choice, I remember the meat
market atmosphere. The
testosterone surged through the space.
As I woman I could feel this strange rampant energy, being looked at. It was a struggle to both understand
what was going on (my 18 year old self really didn’t understand how I was
looked at) and a struggle to protect yourself. I used my standoffishness to prevent men coming near
me. But here, the space had none
that frightening energy. Male
desires were catered for. They did
not had to fight for it, so calm prevailed. Their needs were acknowledged, administered to, in what felt
like a safe space.
A
woman sits next to us on the adjacent table shifting up near to us to
accommodate the large group of male friends she has come with. She starts chatting to us, to find out
why we are there. We chat to her
throughout the evening. She’s been
a stripper in the past: the proverbial college-student stripper. She’s at ease with the set up, she
enables her male friends to get the dancers over. Me and my researcher friend are bought drinks by our
neighbours. Two tequila shots and
a glass of champagne each. Oh
dear. I’ve never undertaken my
research so drunk.
I
hear the song ‘Ill Manors’ by Plan B, then a remix of ‘Hometown’ by Adele. The dancers come and go from the
stage. We hear an announcement of
their name, they come out or there is a delay and an empty stage
momentarily. There seem to be
different approaches to the stage.
Some walk on, hold the pole, twirl around it a little, leaning outwards,
with gauche internal sexy expression, self-absorbed. The dancers start with their tops on, then they remove them,
put it onto a sofa that is at the stage end of the catwalk. Another approach is to come onto the
stage with a small towel and wipe down the pole—I’m told the towel has alcohol
on it, so as to remove the sweat off the pole and enable greater grip. A dancer doing this announces her
impending attack of the pole.
These are the exciting dancers.
They run to the pole, jump, inch up it, invert their bodies, push out
into impossible positions, flexing their muscles. When a dancer dramatically drops from the top to the bottom
of the pole—still perfectly in control—there are audible gasps across the
room.
Watching
the dancing onstage is important to me.
This is the only part of the evening in which I am myself. I force myself into the setup. I watch the dancing, the energetic,
performative dancing engrossed, excited.
This is a subversive pleasure.
I am reading the setup against the grain. Pushing my gaze
into a situation not designed for me.
My favourite dancer is called ‘Aurora’. She dances athletically on the stage and pole but I see what
I am after: she has dominion over her body, over her performance. She owns the moment. Rock it, Aurora!
My
researcher friend chats extensively to our new female friend and the dancers
who tentatively approach us, about her research, why we are there. I feel the alcohol. I feel the music. I enjoy watching. I chat too, but listen a lot. If a dancer wants to come to work, she
must pay: £20 for a day shift, £85 for a night shift. I remember Lily Burana’s book ‘Strip City’, I wish and hope
these dancers will unionise and force the clubs to not charge them to work. Most of the girls are English. A couple of Italians chat to us. One is chef by day. Then there is a Romanian. They tell us their dreams, to get out
of London, to go to the sun, somewhere.
A dancer tells me the rules we are told at the beginning are not
specific to us as women, everyone gets the same rules. One dancer is sitting on the knee of a
man in the group we are next to, she turns around and chats to me. She sees my necklace, she likes it and
touches it, she touches me. In
this club the dancers are the ones who are allowed to touch. They choose when and how they
touch. We, the punters do not have
any touching rights.
The
women who sit with us speak freely.
They speak of their attitudes to the work, describing the conditions,
dress codes. Long dresses are
encouraged. Some wear long
dresses, but safety pin them up at the front to reveal their legs. Hen nights have come here, also lesbian
couples. Apparently the club is
very relaxed, it’s this is appealing for dancers. A self-selection happens—the dancers who are interested in
chatting about their work, speaking with women, switching off from the hustle
for a while, come and sit with us.
I like them. I guess there
may have been women who I wouldn’t be interested in us, who aren’t open, warm, receptive
to other women, but they do not approach us—so I can't report if those type of
women circulate in the club, if they do, I did not encounter them.
A
performer comes out and works on suspended hoop. She wears black heart-shaped pasties. A dancer comes over to us. She’s been watching us. She sits next to me. Warmly she introduces herself to me,
Leanne. She touches me lightly and
tells me to have a private dance with her. I think she is a little older than me. She has a warm and nurturing manner. She holds my hand and takes me to sort
of alcoved sofa, where private lap-dances are taking place. Before she begins, she asks if I’ve
ever had a lap-dance before, I tell her no. She says, I’m sorry honey, I’m gonna have to ask you sit
with your legs apart, as she moves my legs into place. I am in a black pencil dress with my
legs apart, thank god it’s a private area, I feel so odd. She presses her cheek to mine, I can
smell her skin. I didn’t expect
the skin contact, she’s so soft, the light touch carries a frisson, the touch
leaves a tingle on my skin. I shut
my eyes, feeling the sensations instead.
I feel her breasts brush across my face. Once she has finished she asks me if I would like to her
carry on. I do, but I say no. She takes me back to my seat. My friend is not around. She has says she’ll come back to dance
with her. Leanne has decided she
will introduce us to lap-dancing tonight.
She made that decision. She
scouted us out, she says she passed us a number of times—checking us out,
feeling our vibe.
Later
I am sitting chatting to one of the men from the group next to us. From this group area we are sitting in,
the party has broken up a little, we are the only ones there for a moment. Aurora approaches us and sits down next
to the man, to tempt him to have a dance.
I say, if he doesn’t want one, I’ll have one. She smiles at me, and says come on then. She holds my hand and leads me away to
a different alcove. She asks about
me, why I am here, I tell her about my showgirl research, that I’m more used to
burlesque. I feel the touch, its
not as intense, I keep my eyes open.
I feel her long hair touch my skin. She smiles at me, meets my eye, hers is a very visual
lap-based performance. She tells
me she’s 30—she says the older dancers are better as they know their bodies and
are comfortable in them. Afterwards
she tells me that her day job is as a ballet and contemporary dancer. That’s why she’s such an charismatic
performer! She wants to teach
dance on the internet, to set up her own business. I think how much I’d love to interview her, I give her my
card.
I’m
sitting alone. A young looking
dancer approaches me, sits with me and chats. I talk about my research. She presses me for a private dance with her. I look in my purse, two ten-pound notes
are left, enough for another dance, but I do not want to spend the money. She remembers what I just told her
about my research and she uses it to convince me to dance with her. She is a mirror; she knows how to work
me, to be what I want. I cannot
find a reason not to have a dance with her. When she dances it is a less intense experience. She kisses me on the cheek again; it is
like a goodbye. I cannot believe I
paid for it. This is a strange
moment, I was not in control, I got a dance. Afterwards I realise I did not ask her her name. Or if I did, it did not stick in my
brain. I know nothing about
her. I do not really enjoy this
interaction. I would guess she was
around 20 years old.
It
must be near closing time. The
dancers are leaving, the punters have left. As we walk up the stairs to leave, Leanne is ahead of
us. She is in a track suit and
cap, she doesn’t look back. As we
get to the door, some of the dancers are clustered round, chatting, waiting for
taxis. Leanne has gone. I feel strange. I never said a last
thank you and goodbye. The rules
of engagement across the entire evening are so strange, so different to what I
used to. My usual boundaries did
not apply—to an extent my gaze and desire was a non-fit, this place was not
designed to facilitate encounters for me, but that did provide a space for me
to transgress. That was certainly
exciting. This is the nearest I
have ever come to imagining, feeling, experiencing what it must be like to be a
man. I guess I was uncertain as to
whether I would encounter any women with self-possession, dominion over her
body, her touch, her looks but I did.
Throughout my research I have to negotiate my own boundaries and
ambivalences. Watching women
perform as objects is a strange terrain to navigate, and I have written about
the moments when I have felt discomfort.
I have to emphasise that across this evening there were such a wide
range of approaches to being a dancer that I cannot generalise. Different approaches to style, dress,
performance, interaction, flirtation, communication I cannot make any universal
statement. Each dancer represented
different levels of object and subject.
However, living and working without shame, shameless display and embodiment is important work, there were women this evening that demonstrated that.
Thank
you, Leanne and Aurora.
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Showgirl Pleasure / Towards Sisterhood / Against Misogyny in the Cellar Door Bar, London
I clocked off from my research for two weeks, during which time, Samantha Brick-gate happens. I don't want to add to the sheer volume of words generated by the incident, instead, I wanted to blog the final encounter with the showgirl in my second chapter. My research, to reiterate, investigates both my own feelings of loving showgirls and the experiences of showgirls themselves. It is my hope, wish, intention, that through opening up my feelings of sisterhood and respect for glamorous women, that I may potentially add to a rich, healthy discussion and how women relate to one another in positive, sisterly ways. I am completely fed-up with the trite worn-out trope of women's competition amongst each other. It is not what I feel or experience.
In a tiny bar, Cellar Door, underneath the Aldwytch, London, I put cocktails I could not afford on my credit card. As it was a bar, a middle-aged man chatted to me, asking what I do. I told him. He began to tell me what he thought about burlesque, informing me how little affect it could have. I began speculate a politics of burlesque, perhaps, femininity and the potential for collectivising around specific issues, citing the Slut Walks as an example. He responded by telling that as he could not see what all the fuss was about with the Slut Walks. As he saw it, it was a good idea to avoiding dress like a slut and going to bad areas, in reference to the initial comments by the police representative, who addressing a group of students in Toronto, which hard sparked the initial protests. Hearing his prejudiced, short-sighted views, in which his sense of entitlement had blinded him of other peoples’ experiences, caused an internal incandescent rage. I did not want to have tell him how totally ignorant, misogynistic he was and his sense of entitlement to tell me about my research and experience as a woman in that specific context, so instead I died a little inside. I was gradually able to disassociate from him as the performers did their turns. Hannah Friedrick, sang jazz interpretations of pop songs including Material Girl, Wild Thing and songs from Jungle Book, to hilarious effect. I was singing along and I was able to relax and make a few notes in my notebook. I drank another cocktail and started to chat to Beatrix Von Bourbon, the burlesque dancer, before she performed. We had tweeted each earlier in the day. Then, as Beatrix started her second and final strip of the evening, I stopped writing and I closed my notebook, so that I could be present in the moment.
The strip was a perfect moment and the performer owned the room. She performed for the audience, as an act of generosity. She was experienced and educated enough to be aware of what she was doing. It did not feel sleazy or uncomfortable despite the number’s conclusion in which the performer’s nudity was in close proximity to the audience. She was prepared to be our object of desire for a moment, because she chose to be. And as I watched, still, not far from the middle-aged man, I thought, yeah fuck you, you have no idea what this means, what pleasure the performer is generating. You have no idea what this means!
Amongst the pleasure-experiences I have described, this was a very simple encounter: a tiny bar and a dancer with a fabulous heavily tattooed body in a great outfit. During the short act, my attention was focussed and nothing else existed. The formula was minimal, but completely accessible to me. I just felt happiness. I felt happy a woman could produce the moment. I felt sisterhood for the performer.
In a tiny bar, Cellar Door, underneath the Aldwytch, London, I put cocktails I could not afford on my credit card. As it was a bar, a middle-aged man chatted to me, asking what I do. I told him. He began to tell me what he thought about burlesque, informing me how little affect it could have. I began speculate a politics of burlesque, perhaps, femininity and the potential for collectivising around specific issues, citing the Slut Walks as an example. He responded by telling that as he could not see what all the fuss was about with the Slut Walks. As he saw it, it was a good idea to avoiding dress like a slut and going to bad areas, in reference to the initial comments by the police representative, who addressing a group of students in Toronto, which hard sparked the initial protests. Hearing his prejudiced, short-sighted views, in which his sense of entitlement had blinded him of other peoples’ experiences, caused an internal incandescent rage. I did not want to have tell him how totally ignorant, misogynistic he was and his sense of entitlement to tell me about my research and experience as a woman in that specific context, so instead I died a little inside. I was gradually able to disassociate from him as the performers did their turns. Hannah Friedrick, sang jazz interpretations of pop songs including Material Girl, Wild Thing and songs from Jungle Book, to hilarious effect. I was singing along and I was able to relax and make a few notes in my notebook. I drank another cocktail and started to chat to Beatrix Von Bourbon, the burlesque dancer, before she performed. We had tweeted each earlier in the day. Then, as Beatrix started her second and final strip of the evening, I stopped writing and I closed my notebook, so that I could be present in the moment.
The strip was a perfect moment and the performer owned the room. She performed for the audience, as an act of generosity. She was experienced and educated enough to be aware of what she was doing. It did not feel sleazy or uncomfortable despite the number’s conclusion in which the performer’s nudity was in close proximity to the audience. She was prepared to be our object of desire for a moment, because she chose to be. And as I watched, still, not far from the middle-aged man, I thought, yeah fuck you, you have no idea what this means, what pleasure the performer is generating. You have no idea what this means!
Amongst the pleasure-experiences I have described, this was a very simple encounter: a tiny bar and a dancer with a fabulous heavily tattooed body in a great outfit. During the short act, my attention was focussed and nothing else existed. The formula was minimal, but completely accessible to me. I just felt happiness. I felt happy a woman could produce the moment. I felt sisterhood for the performer.
Feelings: Melancholia & Born to Die
The pounding, relentless forward propulsion towards the end of the world in 'Melancholia' experienced through the emotional breakdown of Justine serves to illustrate just how little agency the individual has. Against impending disaster: economic, environmental, political we experience only our own our emotional response. That’s all we can feel. As the film shows, we have no manoeuvre room to change the direction of the hidden planet Melancholia. We can change nothing. Just feel the catastrophe.
The first time I watched the film, I enmeshed my own feelings I was experiencing of dislocation, estrangement and research-confusion into Justine's pull downwards into depression. Maybe she was the only one who understood what the end of the world meant. Maybe she was the only one who intuited it. The unrelenting unravelling and unhinging of Justine drives the film. Her inverted charisma cyclones, collecting up the cinema-spectators with tear-stained faces. It can wrap you into the storm, if you let it. As I walked away from the cinema in November I could feel my own cyclone collecting all my failures, all my doubts, fears, flaws. Like a magnet, the affect of film searched my psyche and found all the negativity. I had no agency. I could feel the self-doubt rush to the surface. I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe, I was hyperventilating.
The second time I saw the film, the cyclone didn’t pick me up. I watched the film dispassionately. I saw only the metaphor of the film. And the hand-held camera work and lens flare. Holding myself outside the film, I could see the mannered personas with their limitations. If I say they were one dimensional, that is not to suggest a weakness in script or acting, rather, the characters were roles, functions, once that function was completed, the character was over. The script, a product of a misanthrope's mind, no-one comes off well, but oh! they look good. I love the running through wool, the naked moonbathing, sex under dress. All these sensuous pleasures: they return the depressed subject back into her body. She can feel.
I don’t cry the second time I see the film. I watch, distanced. I choose not to descend into the film.
It's like I told you honey, don't make me sad, don't make me cry.
Lana del Rey saved me from 'Melancholia' that second time. Her song 'Born to Die' takes control of the descent. She describes mental tumbling downward, in this song, through a destructive compulsion toward the archetypal bad boy - is it even him she loves, or just how he looks?
Come and take a walk on the wild side. Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain, like your girls insane.
The song is an ode to the pleasure of the descent. Lana chooses to pursue the pleasure of failing, for the wrong boy, the wrong life choice, the wrong drug. But this is the song of the sober person. Remembering the feelings of disembodiment, disenchantment, wanting to feel, feel something. Even if those feelings are the most negative and masochistic. An ode to the masochistic pull of falling down, into hyperventilated tears. The fond rememberings of someone back on terra firma. Choosing not descend again.
Choose your last words, this is the last time cause you and I we were born to die.
Moving back and forth between the so cool it hurts car-bonnet sex in jeans-shorts and Converse and sitting, queen of her dominion with a her tigers, in white femme-fatale dress, blue rose-crown and red lips, there is no sexier way to tell the story of the love-affair that nearly killed you. The affair, here, a love affair, but also we could insert any death-drive behaviour that we will upon ourselves, bringing us back into our own body. I guess my drug of choice is my quiet victim-moments in which I force myself to envisage and feel the catastrophic failure of my research and career. But I have a choice, I can choose that choice. Own that choice, own my feelings. The individual, with her agency.
The first time I watched the film, I enmeshed my own feelings I was experiencing of dislocation, estrangement and research-confusion into Justine's pull downwards into depression. Maybe she was the only one who understood what the end of the world meant. Maybe she was the only one who intuited it. The unrelenting unravelling and unhinging of Justine drives the film. Her inverted charisma cyclones, collecting up the cinema-spectators with tear-stained faces. It can wrap you into the storm, if you let it. As I walked away from the cinema in November I could feel my own cyclone collecting all my failures, all my doubts, fears, flaws. Like a magnet, the affect of film searched my psyche and found all the negativity. I had no agency. I could feel the self-doubt rush to the surface. I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe, I was hyperventilating.
The second time I saw the film, the cyclone didn’t pick me up. I watched the film dispassionately. I saw only the metaphor of the film. And the hand-held camera work and lens flare. Holding myself outside the film, I could see the mannered personas with their limitations. If I say they were one dimensional, that is not to suggest a weakness in script or acting, rather, the characters were roles, functions, once that function was completed, the character was over. The script, a product of a misanthrope's mind, no-one comes off well, but oh! they look good. I love the running through wool, the naked moonbathing, sex under dress. All these sensuous pleasures: they return the depressed subject back into her body. She can feel.
I don’t cry the second time I see the film. I watch, distanced. I choose not to descend into the film.
It's like I told you honey, don't make me sad, don't make me cry.
Lana del Rey saved me from 'Melancholia' that second time. Her song 'Born to Die' takes control of the descent. She describes mental tumbling downward, in this song, through a destructive compulsion toward the archetypal bad boy - is it even him she loves, or just how he looks?
Come and take a walk on the wild side. Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain, like your girls insane.
The song is an ode to the pleasure of the descent. Lana chooses to pursue the pleasure of failing, for the wrong boy, the wrong life choice, the wrong drug. But this is the song of the sober person. Remembering the feelings of disembodiment, disenchantment, wanting to feel, feel something. Even if those feelings are the most negative and masochistic. An ode to the masochistic pull of falling down, into hyperventilated tears. The fond rememberings of someone back on terra firma. Choosing not descend again.
Choose your last words, this is the last time cause you and I we were born to die.
Moving back and forth between the so cool it hurts car-bonnet sex in jeans-shorts and Converse and sitting, queen of her dominion with a her tigers, in white femme-fatale dress, blue rose-crown and red lips, there is no sexier way to tell the story of the love-affair that nearly killed you. The affair, here, a love affair, but also we could insert any death-drive behaviour that we will upon ourselves, bringing us back into our own body. I guess my drug of choice is my quiet victim-moments in which I force myself to envisage and feel the catastrophic failure of my research and career. But I have a choice, I can choose that choice. Own that choice, own my feelings. The individual, with her agency.
Friday, 2 December 2011
A Job I Invented For Myself...
So, over the summer I became an expert showgirl-spectacle viewer. I write about my experiences at length in my Chapter 2. During one show in Paris, my mind wandered and I began to develop a future consulting job for myself in which I get invited to view shows at rehearsal stage in order to advise how pleasure might be best generated in the show. I pictured my business card, ‘Dr Alison J Carr – showgirl consultant’. I mean, I think I could really help shows out, despite their wonderfulness, they really can make some bad dubious directional decisions. I could help them avoid that and enable them to create appeal for the broadest possible audience. And I could get to see the shows for free.
Viewing Yma at the FredrichstradtPalast, Berlin
I tried to photograph the interior of this theatre, but without a magazine publishing deal they would not work with me. So I loved the show, but it makes me sad to think about it.
In the dark theatre I could not make notes. I make notes in the pub afterwards:
In the dark theatre I could not make notes. I make notes in the pub afterwards:
Voulez Vous Coche Avec Moi number: women groin moves/sex moves. Kicking routine ending in water, Busby Berkely. Homoerotics not sublimated, cave men with Mohawks and one woman with boobs out, men rolling on each other. Men stripping in shower. Dancing in black leggings. Tranny singing. Jumpers in black bodysuits with lime stripes. Girls not fully on beat of music. Smiles! I love smiles! Sex moves. Contemporary choreography and music. Girls over a barre number. I’m Coming Up by Pink – strange disco headwear. Trampy women in ‘cameras-flashing’ number, lace bondage leotards. Short-haired female dancer going for it, my favourite dancer. Tap-dance on a podium Matrix style. Sailor scene, strip for men. Tango with two men and one woman.
Viewing the Paradis A La Folie at the Paradis Latin, Paris
I also visited Paradis Latin, and here are my notes from that show. At the end of the evening I rode a 'velib' - a bike you can rent in the street, to my friend's flat to say goodbye to her before she travelled back to Berlin. Just some context for you!
Paradis A La Folie: Madness in Paradise. Tourist crowd, same one as Nouvelle Eve. No style. Gaggles of women in 20s. Couples in groups in 40s, boring looking. 2 x couples alone in 50s. Blouse and purple knit jerkin. Australian bus load of 20s in semi-smart clothes (but a bit townie too). And audience on holiday, relaxed, drinking, speaking English. Large Indian family. Lower-middle class demographic? Professionals, skilled workers and students? Banquet tables. Large groups of women. Sparkly diamante hair-band. A straight audience? A photographer comes round, I say no. It’s strange how on the metro if I saw these women I see around me, I’d feel an affinity with them, but not now, in this context. The lights dim. Video projected. Roses outfit, 5 girls, 4 nudes, t-bar tan shoes, all short brown hair, 5 boys. Compère lowered on to stage, a pale pink top hat and tails. Rose nude lowered from ceiling long hair and flower thong, ballet flats, nude with leaves. Ballet pas de deux. Female singer enters from back of auditorium. Rose coloured long dress with large rose neckline. Singer with 4 men and then compère. Showboys for moment, lots of jump steps, tapping, cheeky, cheesy choreography, very Constance Grant Dance Centre. Compère speaks to audience in French, then English. Waiters on stage, the male dressed-up host as we came in, now in drag. In ballet class number at the barre, evolves and more sexy leotard girls come out, very Eric Pridz video. Judo boys – manly??? Music, Daft Punk-esque beats. Steam shower with girls, just towels, 4 girls, strip with tease removing towel. Bit more knowing choreography. Bums in showers – men. More comical choreography. Barbie doll bodies – hairdown, swish hair head roll. Rave disco scene – techno. Pop/street dance influences unzipped skeleton wet suits. Goes to black, zip up full skeleton suit. Oh-la-la song. Girls in Adidas type track suit bottoms. Compère back, black suit. Angelou, unicycling bar tender. The formula makes me think of the ‘70s. Country fair carousel, rotating with girls on as architecture – blonde pageboys. Opens up into 4 girls in leathers on motorbikes, take off helmets and shake out blonde hair. Strip off to boob harness and thong. Dance on bike, arched back. Hair swinging. Rope and man in white pants – ‘Christopher’ – sublime smile – Tarzan/Indiana Jones music. Shaved armpits, arm decoration, sequinned shorts. Very flit, flexible, was he an Olympic gymnast 15 years ago? The guy spotting him is a star too. Montagues and Capulets Prokofiev music, period dress. Court dance, with boobs, pas de deux scene from Romeo & Juliet. Strip off to under-net, they marry, sexy ballet?? Hip hop tribute to Romeo & Juliet. 4 girls in waistcoats, jeans and Trilbys, 5 boys in just jeans and Trilbys. Body hair free evening. Boys as objects. 17tth Century Louis 15th number, girls as boys court dancing, boys strip off and stay, girls leave. Real boys in same sort of outfit and they strip off too. 2 sets of boys dance together. Bouillon? Tap-dancing juggler. Can-can, better costume, better choreography (than La Nouvelle Eve). Girl tumbler, 3 boy tumblers. Compère in white tails. Thanks technicians, dressers, musicians, front of house. Cheerleaders, singer in long white gown – Marie. No fake boobs. Crossdresser type dame goes back and forth between male/female dress.
Viewing Paris je t’aime at La Nouvelle Eve, Paris
I visited the the smaller scale cabaret 'La Nouvelle Eve', and drank a small bottle of champagne, included in the ticket price, whilst making these notes:
Audience: tourists, families – large Indian family. Middle aged couples, girls aged 10, boys aged 13? Australian student group. Young smart couple, 20? Middle aged large group, breaks up into men and women. Two German women in 60s. Everyone dressed up smart. American father and son. Preppy Americans in front of me. Opening number, 10 women, 4 men. Is this chorography dated? Disco-ball entrance, blonde-singer, g-string. 5 girls techno-beat number, red top with cut out heart on sternum, more commercial dance. 4 boys enter, girls leave. 3 girls back – smiles! Topless dancer, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Sparkle sleeves, original. I like the dancers, personality. Head-dresses, just hair up, understated. Blonde-singer comes on with very Moulin Rouge headdress. Topless, singing. She doesn’t have ‘it’ fully. Two men juggling with hats. Black waistcosts, white shirts and trousers. Australian audience member pulled up on stage – juggler speaks English – tourist language. Cancan – three boys in red and black, two girls in pink. Ten-girl line, multicoloured costumes. Lots of yelping, like wildcats. Boy cartwheels and tumbles, takes centre-stage, why? Kicking music, same as Constance Grant Dance Centre uses (my dancing school). Three boys come on. Boy doing jumping splits – why? All girls in twos, 2 girls dancing together. Mr Bean type clown enters. Physical comedy. New number, 4 girls in trousers and 2 boys – all in the same costume, 5 girls in floppy drop-waisted dresses, 2 couples come on. Feels fresh, dramatic tango-like. Girls are boys in the choreography. Nice use of back. Cuban-heeled Oxfords on girls as boys, boys in a flatter heel but that’s the only difference in costume. Music is a bit Eurovision. 4 boys from Grease, 2 girls on ribbons, topless in S & M harnesses. They leave. Black strap costumes – nice. Blonde singer is ‘Arta’ the star girl/compère is a better dancer than singer. No singing. Topless male, more manly. White costume dancer with ballet-flats and thong. Enigma type music for ballet. Arta back in long backless frock. Good set of lungs on her. I don’t like her bottle blonde bob. Jazz Hot Baby – blue leotards and bows, pillbox hats. Great costume, not used enough. Jazz Hot – great song, would love a bit more tapping out. Arte talks in every langue – she’s like a flight announcement. Frothy, needs balls. Arta gets 4 audience men to dance on stage. Really?? A bride as a prize?? Bit weird. Bit buy-a-Russian-bride. Man comes on stage with showgirl holding a baby. Weird. Like Fire number, film Showgirls hand-move. Arte, she’s good, but I want a larger personality to carry the show, she’s slightly lacking in charisma. How do shows queer themselves? Finale black and pink. Love Me, 6 girls, topless, platform shoes for shorter dancers. Oui Je T’aime finale number.
Audience: tourists, families – large Indian family. Middle aged couples, girls aged 10, boys aged 13? Australian student group. Young smart couple, 20? Middle aged large group, breaks up into men and women. Two German women in 60s. Everyone dressed up smart. American father and son. Preppy Americans in front of me. Opening number, 10 women, 4 men. Is this chorography dated? Disco-ball entrance, blonde-singer, g-string. 5 girls techno-beat number, red top with cut out heart on sternum, more commercial dance. 4 boys enter, girls leave. 3 girls back – smiles! Topless dancer, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Sparkle sleeves, original. I like the dancers, personality. Head-dresses, just hair up, understated. Blonde-singer comes on with very Moulin Rouge headdress. Topless, singing. She doesn’t have ‘it’ fully. Two men juggling with hats. Black waistcosts, white shirts and trousers. Australian audience member pulled up on stage – juggler speaks English – tourist language. Cancan – three boys in red and black, two girls in pink. Ten-girl line, multicoloured costumes. Lots of yelping, like wildcats. Boy cartwheels and tumbles, takes centre-stage, why? Kicking music, same as Constance Grant Dance Centre uses (my dancing school). Three boys come on. Boy doing jumping splits – why? All girls in twos, 2 girls dancing together. Mr Bean type clown enters. Physical comedy. New number, 4 girls in trousers and 2 boys – all in the same costume, 5 girls in floppy drop-waisted dresses, 2 couples come on. Feels fresh, dramatic tango-like. Girls are boys in the choreography. Nice use of back. Cuban-heeled Oxfords on girls as boys, boys in a flatter heel but that’s the only difference in costume. Music is a bit Eurovision. 4 boys from Grease, 2 girls on ribbons, topless in S & M harnesses. They leave. Black strap costumes – nice. Blonde singer is ‘Arta’ the star girl/compère is a better dancer than singer. No singing. Topless male, more manly. White costume dancer with ballet-flats and thong. Enigma type music for ballet. Arta back in long backless frock. Good set of lungs on her. I don’t like her bottle blonde bob. Jazz Hot Baby – blue leotards and bows, pillbox hats. Great costume, not used enough. Jazz Hot – great song, would love a bit more tapping out. Arte talks in every langue – she’s like a flight announcement. Frothy, needs balls. Arta gets 4 audience men to dance on stage. Really?? A bride as a prize?? Bit weird. Bit buy-a-Russian-bride. Man comes on stage with showgirl holding a baby. Weird. Like Fire number, film Showgirls hand-move. Arte, she’s good, but I want a larger personality to carry the show, she’s slightly lacking in charisma. How do shows queer themselves? Finale black and pink. Love Me, 6 girls, topless, platform shoes for shorter dancers. Oui Je T’aime finale number.
Viewing Féerie at the Moulin Rouge
In the summer I went to view a number of showgirl spectacles in Paris. During the shows I made notes. I wrote down descriptions and on the spot analyses of the displays in front of me. I typed up my notes with the hope of using them in my writing, however I have found it hard to make them useful. As I just cut the words from my Chapter 2, I thought I'd recycle them here. This is what I wrote from my not very good seat at the side of the stage, at the end of table I shared with noisy disinterested patrons.
Dance, Dance white caps, disco-dancing. Older showboys. Thong bum. Parle Dance? Long hair through caps, high kicks, glitter. Aujhord’hui 3 singing bun-heads, mics on face, string beads for a top. Pleat skirt with feather trim. Camp dancing. 3 nudes high-kicking. Male dancers, dry ice, uniform-type hats, marching. Female voice – la la. Women with coloured trim dresses. As girlfriends to soldiers. Bead top. Boobs covered for some. Red dancing pom pom. Slim thighs. Amazing costumes with moving parts. Juggler act to techno music. Pirate number, men. Hookers for pirates, hair down. Boobs out and harnesses. Sultry looking faces. Pith helmet – safari suit. Orientalism outfit. Harem with beads and harem women. Strange fan-like headdresses. Cat-like women – leopards, enter wailing – ahhhhh, fight with soldier guards. Body ripples. Medusa. Blonde girl slave enter. Jumps into pool with snakes. Snake dance underwater! Kisses snake. Couple fly in on string in neon and UV light. Orientialism. Pantomime. Real boobs. Featured act – male and female acrobat. East-European looking. Circus type ringmaster. Clowns – men – mini horses walk on x 6. Kossacks!!! Orientalism less successful than using tropes from entertainment – girl clown number. Pointing to own construction – more useful. 2 girls in one dress. Lions – dancers as lions. Wide trousers on clowns. Drum bit featured act. Audience interaction. Mexico – big sceam from crowd “Mexi-co!!” “China” “Ukraine” “Brazil”. Drunk woman – act – dancers clubbing, comedy. Cancan, no men. Men. All cartwheel. All cartwheel and splits – but male extra-flex man! Boogie Woogie number. 3 singing women – English – all other in French – short-hair wigs. Punks/Cher costume – zip t-shirt. ‘New Generation’??? 3 girls and all men. “I will survive!” song. Tom of Finland hat and jacket – strange Eastern European Eurovision moment. Stage lowered with men. Mirror ball man – over the top pink costumes. Hip wiggle move. Wardrobe malfunction - lights not on on one side of pack. Pink boots, thigh high and ankle.
Friday, 19 August 2011
Showgirls Commentary
Sometimes I plan blogs, and I plan them so much with ideas in my head and notes in my notebook that basically they never happen. Over thinking. And other times, I just think of something and want to get it out there so it manifests somehow. That's what I'm doing now. As an artist, I am meant to be thinking about making art. In a studio. But I find myself thinking all kinds of things I'd like to do, usually nowhere near a studio. It's nice to spend time alone - like this summer - in Berlin, Paris and London, away from normal life, to let those ideas of all kinds rush to me, through me and wash over me. Like waves. Some of the water will stick though, and I'll take the idea forward and it will manifest in art. For now, though, maybe its fun to treat the ideas as the end product, the thing. So, one idea I had whilst watching Basic Instinct with Camille Paglia's commentary was that I'd like to do commentaries on films too. It would be like writing but better. I like writing because you have to give your ideas form on a page, but I like thoughts in themselves, and writing is just a carrier for your thoughts. Talking is my favourite thought carrier. But that's tricky. I mean, how do I get my talked thoughts 'out there', so they exist as a professional output? Why, is that important, you might ask. Well, the more thoughts I get out there 'in the world', and the more that people receive those thoughts (maybe like them? I can but hope) then the more freedom and potential for getting a wage I have. I am not after millions, just something to live on. I'm saying this because I have one more year of stipend at Sheffield Hallam University, so I can feel pennilessness rush towards me to steal my style. But freedom and a wage. That's what its about isn't it? It is for me. No outward signifiers necessary. The wage I blow on DVDs, audiobooks, books, second-hand dresses, make-up and haircuts (if I could have a bit more money I could have more frequent haircuts then I'd really have style).
None of this is the point. This is all off the point. These are idea waves.
What I was trying to say was, I would like to do an audio commentary for the films that I'll look at in my PhD research like Showgirls; Gilda; Dance, Girl, Dance; On Tour; Dancing Lady and Stage Door. The question is, and its the same question for everything I do at present, is it 'art' or 'writing'. A hybrid? How would it be disseminated? Could it be a DVD or something online, or an mp3 you have to play whilst you watch?
I have ideas in the moment, in the experience. The thereness. The in the moment. Like when I was watching spectacles this summer: Yma at FriedrichstadtPalast in Berlin and Moulin Rouge, Nouvelle Eve, Paradis Latin in Paris. I thought some really big thoughts. About what I was watching, about how to penetrate the spectacle, about visual pleasure, about how spectacle can be queered, or not, how it might evolve. My (dream) future life as a Professor of Showgirls, Desire and Art in which I am paid as a consultant to develop new shows that are both progressive and traditional. A life in which I do not have to pay to see shows, at least. And theatres give me access to photograph their auditoriums (unlike FriedrichstadtPalast, by the way. They said I could get access if I was to get the photographs published - going on a gallery wall is not enough, apparently. So if you could enable me to get a magazine commission for the interior of the FriedrichstadtPalast, then, let's talk).
If I could create an audio commentary for seeing spectacle, now that would be cool. Like an audio guide for galleries and museums. Only for spectacle. Maybe it would be for all shows, including burlesque. Huh, I really should do that shouldn't I.
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