body issues

Being a late comer to the world of ballet (I didn’t start until I was pushing twenty…) I never grew up watching my diet, or figure, like most dancers would have; I was actually a rather–er–husky child. This was something that I was actively teased about starting from the age of nine or ten. By the age of twelve I actively hated my body and would spend time in the bathroom staring at it in the mirror, mentally treating my own figure as if it were some sort of enemy, a traitor to me as a whole. If only, I would think, if only this one part of me were different, people would like me more. 

My teen years watched me get larger (partly due to depression issues, partly due to an undiagnosed issue with wheat/gluten) until I weighed a bit over three hundred pounds by the age of fifteen. The teasing had gotten worse and I was in a strange world of homework, Ann Rice novels and the music of Nine Inch Nails. I had built an isolated little bunker of sorts, armored with my own, self-proclaimed, uniqueness and desire to be different. If I were to be isolated, I felt, it may as well be by my own terms. 

By this point, I was just beginning High School, and everything seemed poised for change–I met the two friends that I would remain closest to for a decade and I began to exercise and diet, bringing my weight down by one hundred pounds in just under two years. People told me I looked great, but I was still dissatisfied–the skin that had grown so rapidly to accommodate my massively expanding form had been left as some sort of cruel, saggy reminder of the fat boy that I once was. By the age of nineteen I had discovered ballet and my perceptions of weight loss, dieting and the ideal form had begun to be cemented within my psyche. 

My twenties were a whirlwind–I dropped out of a linguistic degree course and began one in dance performance. I started exercising between five and seven hours a day, between classes, rehearsals and going to the gym. I followed a “rabbit diet” at times, allowing myself only protein bars/shakes and trail mix on some days, trying to eat just enough so that I would remain in good faculty of the body that I was constantly pushing, yet never satisfied with. In the two weeks before a show I would force myself to lose approximately fourteen pounds, based entirely off of the fear of how I would look in the tight fitting costumes we were forced to wear. My teachers were not much assistance, as they only offered comments such as: “From the knees down, you’re perfect” and “You look great! Keep up the good work!” (after being violently ill). I felt (and to an extent, still do feel) that the true measure of a body’s beauty lay in how many bones were visible, how many muscular “cuts” there were, how empty an outfit could look, even with a body resting uncomfortably within.

When I moved to London and began performing as Ragina, it seems that all of the old mental foes returned–in the absence of the strict confines of dance school, I was forced to make my own strict routine. And so, I pushed myself further and further down a dark road that ended with me being so tired, so unhappy and so injured that I simply couldn’t dance anymore. I quit performing and taking ballet classes for a few months, thinking that I couldn’t continue doing this to myself, basing so much of my life on something that made me so desperately unhappy, so unwell. 

During my hiatus, I somehow rediscovered what it was about ballet that I loved so much, what is was that actually moved me. Ironically, it was the work of George Balanchine, a man famous partly due to his excessive demand for thinness in his dancers, that made me remember. Watching his work reminded me that this world, the world we see and interact as part of, is not the true world–the truth is what we can not see, or easily perceive. It was a type of spirituality mixed with art that reawakened something within me, something I thought that I had lost. A spark that I hadn’t felt in a long while.

And so, here we are–imperfections and all. I have the Kate Bush show next month that I’m performing/choreographing in, as well as a small performance this very evening. The thought of squeezing myself into that black scuba suit and corset, of strapping those pink satin bricks to my feet and attempting the impossible illusion of weightlessness and effortlessness, does bring with it a frisson of fear. Will they even see my dancing, or will they be too preoccupied with the sight of this body in a unitard? Will they actually appreciate my performance, or will they simply judge me for my shape? These are feelings that never quite go away, but I realize now that it comes down to a matter of personal perspective boiled down to one single question: why am I doing this? And for this question, the answer is simple: for the joy of it. To share the joy that I experience when I hear music and move to it. 

In the end, none of us are perfect. This is a simple fact that we all should try harder to absorb: the fact that most of us will probably never reach our own personal definitions of the ideal, of perfection. This doesn’t mean, however, that one should give up; it simply means that one must change one’s notion of what perfection is and can be. 

So go out there and do what you do–just do it joyfully because, really, that’s all that matters anyhow. 

xx r

 

 

english national ballet and ‘romeo and juliet’

Let’s take a step back from the world of cabaret and drag to focus on my one, true love: the ballet. Oh, ballet is a magical thing–sometimes, as a dancer, it can feel like an abusive relationship, what with the high highs and low lows, yet it can also be, as a spectator, something like what I should imagine true religious belief to be. i’m talking chills, goosebumps, spontaneous crying. Everything that makes a person feel like they have a soul. 

And so I went to see the English National Ballet with some high hopes and some excellent seats–thanks to a friend in the corps. Being in the Royal Albert Hall, I was curious to see how the choreographer would utilise a thrust stage that is so….thrust-y…that it is almost in the round. You see, one of the main elements of ballet is something called épaulement, or how the dancers position themselves in regard to a fixed spectator. Seeing as ballet came from courtly entertainments, the King–in the front–was always the fixed position. This allows for much play when it comes to the human form, with positions such as croisé, ecarté and effacé describing the relationship between the head, shoulders, arms and legs. These positions can make a dancer look more or less intimidating, coy, friendly, innocent or even brazen. In a thrust stage, and no real fixed ‘front’, these foundations of ballet are lost and with them, much of the poetry of movement. It seems that the choreographer recognised this deficiency and attempted to remedy it by utilising a huge, writing cast to provide everyone from every vantage point something to look at. Rather than creating excitement, this created chaos–a stage so filled with colour and classroom steps as to be more Wringling Brothers than Petipa. 

Well…now that we mention Petipa…

It seems that his “La Belle au bois dormant,” better known as “The Sleeping Beauty,” was originally seen as a similar beast: a “ballet féerie” or “…an imported popular Western dance genre, typically relegated to the stages of St. Petersburg’s amusement parks” where the event was driven by spectacular group dance scenes, opulent costumes, elaborate sets and mystifying stage effects. These “fairy ballets” were seen as inferior to “real” ballet due to the fact that the dances were quite charming and spectacular, but seemingly stuffed in amongst the action of the actual ballet, where “…dance is only a supplement to the effects of the production, which play the leading role.” At one point in ballet’s history, choreographers demanded that dance steps carry meaning, that the steps themselves tell a story so that words were no longer needed. In a fairy ballet, the steps were their own separate entities, with their own dramatic impetus separate from the over-arching whole of the ballet. Petipa knew this, but created “The Sleeping Beauty” in order to further a career by pleasing “…the broad mass of the public, the theatrical directory, and most importantly–the imperial court.”

And now we return to Romeo and Juliet. With seeming ties to the fairy ballet–with its use of massive group dances, seemingly shoe-horned in–it is obvious that this modern creation lacks a few redeeming aspects of creations such as “The Sleeping Beauty.” Sure, the costumes were passable–they set the mood, but were far from spectacular, while the scenery was…minimal. Nothing like the Petipa work where people described “An unforgettable matinée! I lived in a magic dream for three hours, intoxicated by fairies and princesses, by splendid palaces dripping in gold, by the enchantment of the fairy tale…” 

Without any “magic dream” to inhabit for three hours, all that was left was the acting and the dancing. The acting was all right, which is all that could be expected from the garbled sense of drama that was presented. Honestly, some of the dramatic reactions were just odd (why was Juliet so brazen and commanding at the ball?). Beyond the dramatic confusion, all of the dancers who appeared were technically gifted–there were no hopped pirouettes, falls or anything of the sort.  The choreography, while not transcendent or genius, was passable. Everyone was very clean. Very nice. Very…god, is this thing almost over yet? I found myself counting down the intermissions, clapping politely for all involved. 

It is quite obvious that The English National Ballet worked quite hard on this production of Romeo and Juliet, that many hours of rehearsal went into the final product, that the choreographer spent much time crafting this piece for audiences to see. But in the end, it was no “Sleeping Beauty” and it certainly did not elicit tears or spiritual moments for this viewer…

…maybe some épaulement would have helped. 

Rubyyy Jones and the Family Fierce at the RVT

Wednesday is a tough night for clubs and performances–people don’t quite have the excuse of Thursday (but it’s almost Friday!) or the allure of the weekend. It’s smack in the middle of the work week and not everyone is willing to give up their precious time in front of the telly in order to get gussied up and head out to see a few queens at work. Yet, there was a more than decent, and friendly, crowd at the RVT last night–and I totally understand why. The revue that Ms. Jones put together truly showed her strengths as a producer and as an emcee. The show order was dead on, allowing for energy levels to rise and fall; to invoke laughter, pathos and a sense of community spirit. 

Of special note this evening were the ladies–Lolo Brow, Holestar and Rubyyy Jones herself. All three had a hypnotic energy about them that made their numbers truly shine. Holestar’s song/spoken word performance on the topic of depression could have been a solipsistic foray, but it somehow managed to have a universal appeal that could speak to everyone. Lolo Brow was like a whirlwind of contorted faces and dynamic energies–her piece on “how to be a man” was both riotously amusing and incredibly thought provoking; just what tortures do we put our bodies through in order to see ourselves the way we wish to be seen? Lastly, Rubyyy Jones was a delight. It seemed that every time she opened her mouth, it made me bray like a mule with laughter, not to mention the fact that I couldn’t take my eyes off of her in the group number, “Diamond Crowned Queen”–she filled every step to the max, squeezing each body roll and head whip for everything it was worth. 

The queens who actually had something to tuck were all interesting, in their own way. Ms. Maxi was so fluid and….juicy. Sensual is the word, with a lip sync to die for. I have to be honest, though, the yogurt in the beard was making me a little uncomfortable (I hate messes). Meth, the shining queen of the group, was quite polished and gave the crowd a couple of very tight and energetic numbers, while Ruby Wednesday and Ms. Bougie both gave the crowd the titillation of seeing something more akin to performance art than traditional “drag.” Michael Twaits was fantastic, as usual, while the newcomer, Ginger, was beautiful with an engaging presence.

Now, Ms. Cairo. Ms. Cairo was…an interesting character. Lascivious and more than a little lewd, she had two numbers en pointe. Speaking as a performer who has used the balletic idiom for their own purposes, I was ready to give this stunning, and eerily feminine, creature the benefit of the doubt. I’m not so petty that I can’t appreciate other performers going en pointe–I was not the first queen to do it, nor the last–but I can say that what was presented wasn’t all that I feel that it could have been. In the world of performing, it is, quite often, anything goes; as soon as one dons a pair of pointe shoes, however, over three hundred years of performing precedent come into play and a different set of, much stricter, rules are automatically put in place. To the non-trained audience, her numbers were “balletic.” To those who have gone through intensive training, the artistry of ballet had been stripped away, leaving mere circus tricks. As one famous dancer stated, “Anyone can go en pointe. It’s how you get down from pointe that shows what sort of dancer you are.” The act of going en pointe was used as an end rather than a means to some loftier artistic goal. Perhaps in the future, with more extensive training, Ms. Cairo will be able to put that gorgeous body to proper use in those little pink satin torture devices and truly wow the crowd. 

All in all, it was a highly entertaining show filled with an amazing cast of characters. If you have the chance, go and see what Rubyyy Jones has in offer next–you won’t be disappointed!

 

xx ragina

judge not, lest ye be slapped

the drag world can be seen as existing on the fringe of what many people would consider to be socially acceptable behaviour. drag queens take gender norms, the very things that dictate what is “masculine” and what is “feminine,” and subvert them by turning themselves into caricatures of what society sees as being emblematic of womanhood. to many, this is seen as a revolution, a breaking of the rigid shackles of society and its commandments of what behaviour is allowed. yet, somehow, this very attempt at revolution seems to merely breed its own limiting rules of behaviour and acceptable conduct, wherein some performers are seen as being more or less “drag.”

some queens are assaulted for being too “real,” too “fishy.” others are condemned for not being feminine enough.  even the *style* of the makeup can separate a man in a dress from a drag queen for many viewers.

so what is drag, then? what are its limitations? in other words: how far can drag be pushed until it is no longer drag? when do people look at a performer and decide that they are/are not performing within the drag paradigm?

the quick response to these questions is: we don’t know. there are no clear definitions of drag. yet it seems that in a queer society where all shades and varieties of people, and performers, are celebrated for being different, there still lies a subtle snobbishness and sense of judgment that is based on a new, internal set of parameters–a definite spectrum of “good” and “bad” with which one can judge fellow members of this sub-group.

and that’s fine; some would say that it’s part of human nature.

but, please, how about we at least recognise this and stop the pretence of thinking ourselves so different and open-minded, so accepting of all creeds and personalities. we all know that in the queer world, no matter how loudly our collective open-mindedness may be exclaimed, there are just as many mean girls as any other segment of society.

and they’re all judging your choice of lipstick.

stoopid body!

The human body is an incredibly strong and resilient thing–tests show that the bones can survive multiple thousands of pounds of pressure; even the delicate act of going “en pointe” puts something like the strain of the weight of a couple of elephants on the concentrated area of the toes.  Ballet training teaches one that, yes, pain is a part of the deal and that in order to make a beautiful spectacle, sometimes it is necessary to endure a certain amount of discomfort.  

Sometimes, though, things get a little excessive.  I’ve bruised toenails.  I’ve lost toenails.  I’ve endured tendonitis and open blisters, sprains and subluxated kneecaps.  Yet few things can quite compare to the unique agony of forcing oneself to dance in ill-fitting pointe shoes.  I had to learn that one the hard way, after a week of intense training followed by two performances in close succession.  I had always been taught that cancelling was simply not an option–when in pain, my teacher’s response was always, “too bad, so sad!”  But after opening a blister right where the shoe was digging into the back of my foot and performing on it, I practically lamed myself.  I could see that the shoe had, literally, dug out flesh from the wound.  Yet I pushed myself to hobble to a rehearsal the next day, even though the tendons around the wounded area were getting swollen and tender to the touch.  I took a class the day after that, wincing with each step I took and hoping a night’s sleep would help.  By this point, I had hollowed out more of the skin, leaving a nasty little depression of red agony.  

I had to continue, though, because I had a major event in my performing career–I was going to attempt an actual variation from “The Sleeping Beauty,” one of my all-time favorite ballets.  I had to make this work–I had to do it right.  

By Tuesday, I was having a hard time walking, but still felt that “the show must go on.”  I hobbled through ballet class in normal, flat shoes and proceeded to obsessively “mark” the dance (which means to kind of do it half-way, for the sake of memory) and run it in my head.  I was too afraid to put the pointe shoes on and *actually* run the variation, for fear of being physically unable to dance for the actual show.  

That night, I was in a sort of trance–my makeup turned out better than I thought it would, perhaps because my fears and trepidations were all aimed elsewhere.  All I needed to do was make it through the 48 second piece and then I could sit on my backside and let my abused body heal itself.  

I was the last performer of the night and had to try and keep myself warm and prepared for the duration of the show.  The speed of the piece, faster than is performed now, was stubbornly kept (thanks to moi) for a sense of historical accuracy.  When I walked on stage and posed, I thought, “This is it.”

The music started, and I began like a shot from a cannon.  From the very beginning, I felt like I was running a race, pushing my body in order to reach velocities that felt like the speed of light.  For a brief moment, I thought it would all be ok.  My mind was changed, however, after I felt a pop and insistent pain in my right ankle.  This flash of pain proved to be enough of a distraction that I was immediately pulled out of “magical ballet land” and deposited in the real, smelly, painful world.  I felt like everyone assembled could see the stress on my face.  I could barely accomplish my rises to pointe after this and I started to feel despondent, wishing, above all else, to simply stop and slink off of the stage.  

I kept it up, though.  I think I was smiling.  All I know is that I aped most of the moves, staying on the music even if the steps were not, exactly, well executed.  All of a sudden, the music stopped.  I bowed and retreated to the dressing room.  

Sitting in the dressing room, sweaty and rubbing my ankle, my entire world felt black.  In my mind I had failed—I had let my body dictate how the piece had gone rather than the other way around.  The producer of the evening, and other artists, tried to make me feel better, but I was nothing but a black cloud of disappointment.  I felt that I had made a joke of myself, for reasons that were outside of my ability to control.  

I retreated from classes and performing for a couple of weeks.  I felt like I would never perform again.  I sat around, eating chocolate, wondering how much it would cost to move to Cambodia and live in total isolation.

After some time spent wallowing in self-pity, I started to re-examine the situation.  Maybe things hadn’t turned out exactly as I wanted, but that didn’t mean that I wouldn’t have further chances to make it better.  I started taking classes again.  My ankle had healed itself and I had further bookings to look forward to.  The world did not end; I was still a performer.  

It’s hard to be reminded, sometimes, that we are human–no amount of mental energy, no “mind over matter” theology can change that.  We are fragile, yet incredibly strong.  In the same manner, a performer will have triumphs and failures.  It is all part of the journey–it’s all live theatre.  Things sometimes go wrong.  It’s how you carry it off, how you continue from that point, that defines what kind of entertainer you truly are.  

So, folks, keep on trying.  Be nice to yourself.  If you fall down, get back up–just wait until you’re properly healed before you jump back into the swing of things.  In the end, it will always be worth it.

xx ragina

shaky drag-olescence

drag is not easy.  i know, watching a show like “rupaul’s drag race” makes one think, ok, put on make-up, put on an outfit, put on a wig….some glitter….and we have lift off!

the reality of the situation is so.  much.  more.  depressing.

1.) MAKE-UP!

as a casual doodler in the drugstore eyeshadow pots since the age of seven or so, i used to think that i knew my way around an eyelid crease and a mascara wand.  of course, i know where to put eyeliner.  of course, i understand how to make a smokey eye.

but…wait.  what?  what are you doing to your eyebrows?  they do not go there!

contouring?  what? what is all of this very dark makeup at the top of your forehead?

and….lashes?  how can one even handle them, those horrible, drunk caterpillars that almost eventually end up where they’re not supposed to be.

stage make up is hard.  girls have the entirety of their teenage years to work on getting REGULAR, SENSE MAKING make up right.  queens are not afforded the time, nor the leniency when it comes to make up failures.     some queens have a “drag mother” to show them the ropes, to help them avoid looking like some poor, confused 12 year old girl smearing blue across her eyes for the first time, but some of us never had that luxury.  some of us were like jodie foster’s nell (google it.),  wandering the bucolic wilds of dragdom, blissfully unaware of their many and egregious style faux pas.

2.) HAIR!

i was never the gayboy who liked doing hair.  my response to everything was either “MESSY UP DO!” or “gel it down.”  seeing the ridiculously amazing hair creations that some of these lady boys come up with is, to put it mildly, intimidating.  i mean…you can knot hair?  seriously?

oh, and have you ever seen the price of a decent wig?  not cool, hair factories, not cool.

3.) COSTUMES!

because dudes tend to have *ahem* *not very convincing lady bodies*, costumes can help alter how people perceive one’s overall shape.  for example, by putting on a corset and then wearing a very voluminous skirt, one’s top half tends to look smaller in proportion.  now, this is easy enough, in theory, to wrap one’s mind around.  in real life, however, this involves a more than rudimentary knowledge of sewing and tailoring in order to make these fantasies real life.  

when faced with this dilemma, queens will either a.) utilize their own sewing skills, b.) hire it out to a sweatshop (or something similar), c.) purchase sad looking pre-fab things, or c.) rely on the immense talents of one’s friends and loved ones! (love you guys! :X )

but just because someone is making it, doesn’t mean the cost of it all disappears: big, man bodies mean big bills at the fabric store.  YES MY TUTU STILL NEEDS 18 YARDS OF TULLE.

4.) BODY…THINGS!

oh god tucking.  tucking is the bane of my drag existence and the reason my surname is “lumpitwatt.” no matter what i do, no matter how many tutorials i take, that shit doesn’t want to stay where i put it–even high power gaffa/duct tape is no match for my super-sweating abilities.  after 3 minutes of dancing, my junk is ready to pop out like that goddamned groundhog on february 2 whilst my eyelashes are making a slow, yet panicked, escape down my face like grotesquely hairy tears.  i hear it just comes down to finding a “trick that works for you,” but until that moment comes, i will forever be cursed with lumpy twattedness.

as far as lady body shaping?  i coast by on evening out my broad shoulders with giant boobies and letting my eerily large man hips do the rest.  tshirts make acceptable bra filler, right?

4.) TALENT!

in my opinion, this is what it all comes down to.  the make up can be amazing beyond belief, the hair stunning, the costume brilliant, the body a perfect simulacrum of a woman, but if the performance is not moving, is not exciting, if it devolves into mere strutting and posing then the entire situation simply becomes an audience witnessing a photo shoot.  i need more, personally.

i have a dance background–i utilize my (admittedly meager…) classical ballet “abilities” to entertain people.  i am well aware that my look, my character and all that comes with it, need further….evolutions…to get to a place i’d truly want them to be.

but like every adolescence, drag-olescences are sometimes terrifying, sometimes humiliating, time periods filled with self-doubt, insecurity and an aggressive search for self.  one can just hope that the end result will be worth the effort.

xx

ragina