Shriners and Showgirls
Ugly. Is irrelevant. It is an immeasurable insult to a woman, and then supposedly the worst crime you can commit as a woman. But ugly, as beautiful, is an illusion. A matter of taste, a whim, an eye, a beholder, an opinion, a spin, light crossing the frame, paint, projection. The moment. Context. Not to put out the fire with gasoline, the amounts of insults directed at me lately, and actually, for the majority of my life as a girl, pre-teen, teenager, woman - mostly were of the ‘ugly’ variety. It doesn’t hurt me, but it may have, hearing it as a child, when I once believed because I was told, that ugly was something awful and inescapable, that I was undeniably and unfortunately ugly, and had no control over this terrible fate, and would have to accept ugly as ugly does. Swallowing the bitter, horse sized pill of ugly was hard, and I chewed it whole, gagging on the powdery Bayerness in order to assimilate it into my system. Hm. Ugly gets shot at me with hollow point bullets with the information AK-47’s and they don’t even bruise me and I am not even wearing a bulletproof vest. I am unbreakable, like 50 Cent, nine bullets including the ones lodged in my jaw will not stop my rhymes.
In the same week, I attended a party with my husband, himself a handsome, dapper throwback to the ’40s, with a penchant for ironic theme parties where costumes are in order, and he is the one who stuffs our closets to their maximum occupancy. Gorilla, mummy, Frankenstein’s monster, every kind of clown, hazmat suits and Jill Sander have it out with my vintage couture, hand sewn confections by seamstresses long deceased, Tom Ford, Wolford, oxford, that shit nobody can afford, rusty cords, cashmere, last year, up to here, down to there, house wear, don’t you dare, renn faire, goth mystere, people will be scared, textiles of the buckwild, one of a kind, out of your mind, endangered species, stained with feces or red paint, no you didn’t, yes you did, it is coming back, give you a heart attack - the history of what was worn and cast off for the last three centuries.
The party was themed “Shriners and Showgirls.” We are neither. We know nothing of these particular organizations, but we have the outfits, so we wore them. Shriners seem scary, secretive, but somehow benevolent and malevolent at the same time, with their hospitals and circuses and yet what do they do? What do they keep the lodges for? What is the big secret? What the fuck is up with that fez? And Showgirls, the legacy of the film, the recent passing of Ann Miller, the exaggeration of the feminine, that really only could be pulled off by a man, or a Rockette, who is a rare and endangered species herself. These dancers have long careers, for the stage is kind, the seats far back enough, the lights flattering enough, the audiences accepting and old and nonjudgmental and perhaps even appreciative that they, these long legged wonders of the world might be a bit - as one idiot producer pointed out - long in the tooth.
My husband’s costume was simple, as he has a selection of fez(s) that span history, even a white one, which he will insist time and time again is a girl’s and will not don it no matter what, although he does admit that it is his very, very, very favorite. It even has its own fez carrying case, which I stole to use as a tiara depository. Snazzy suit, Masonic print tie, maroon fez at a jaunty angle made a splash for certain, and he was good to go.
My costume was an entirely different story. I love the Busby Berkeley showgirls of the 30s great musicals. All legs and celluloid, the kaleidoscope of limbs, skin so soft and dimply and pure ivory, with ostrich feathers fanning out in every direction, the bejeweled body less like a human being and more like a dream from Kenneth Jay Lane wakes and immediately finds the paper and pen he keeps by his bedside, just for moments like these.
It starts with the tender garments that go underneath the hardware. Some 15 denier tights with a panty to ensure that you will be Pre-code but not prehistoric, and have to be hunted down by Celebrity Skin, a fabulous publication that I would rather read than be in. La Perla tap pants once over that and you are golden. Do the Charleston, the Egyptian, the Running Man, it is all good. By the way, if any of this sounds out of your budget, it isn’t. I bought it all on ebay, for less than it would take you to drive yourself to the mall. A showgirl’s costume, from back in the day, but redone, by a belly dance house, who pride themselves in the history of burlesque was the jewelry I chose. It consisted of a gold bra, entirely made up of gold pearls, of all shapes and sizes, with gold sequins to cover up the spaces in between. Underneath the bra, loops of gold pearls drape the midriff, making the Cleopatra effect all the more pronounced. Leave the golden pearl panty for right before dashing out the front door, so that your ass does not end up looking like an NYC cab driver’s back (why do they always have the wooden beads on the driver’s seat - it looks like that would hurt more than help).
Then hair and makeup, for which I allow four hours at the very least. There are times when you have to do a complete overhaul, that one shaky hand can ruin the canvas, so we return to the primer and start again. This of course is not my normal routine. I have a swipe of lipstick, whichever color is closest to my hand as I am leaving the house, vague hope that it might make it to my lips, but other than that, I don’t care. Not tonight. Eyelashes, human hair, but not my own, brown, then painted black, will be meticulously applied one by one, upper and lower, then coated with the most noir French mascara, so expensive it comes in a gold-plated tube and velvet bag, and does not even have a name. The famous Man Ray photograph, the eyelashes that have a tiny dot so that you look like your lash is actually an exclamation point, this is what I want the eyes of the picture I paint on myself to resemble. White eyeliner inside, black on the outside, my eyes are no longer mine but Elizabeth Taylor’s in “Boom.” No rouge, I don’t want to hurt someone. Fat lips like a blow up doll on mine look strangely ‘classy,’ and the scarlet red of them, after several minutes of rubbing off the skin of my lips with terry cloth, because if you wear a dark color, those flaky chips will just give you mouth dandruff that is ruinous to this art of artifice. I am no longer myself, but a luminous film star from the 30s, when Cecil Beaton scrutinized you from the bitchy lens of his camera, and if you didn’t look beautiful, God help you.
I put on the golden pearl panties, with a whirlwind of golden pearls in a twister around my legs and knee high ostrich feather covered boots, scattered with rhinestones and iridescent pheasant feathers, and finally, the one really amazing thing that I have just acquired, the Bird of Paradise coat, specially hand made for me by my friends at Narcisse Designs, a floor length flurry confection of feathers of all the birds that Audobon could identify. Violent glamour. Step back, you might get caught in the crossfire.
My husband almost fainted at the sight of me, and he is not the frail sort. When we arrived, I put the giant feather headdress, another ebay find, made for Carnivale or Cirque de Soleil or Cher - making me three feet taller now, so I must duck at the door to walk into the room. As I enter the courtyard, filled with hipsters all decked out in their Shrinery and Showgirl finery, conversation stops. Silence for several seconds ensues, then a burst of heated applause. “Bella! Bellissimmo! BRAVO!!!!” I am suddenly a starlet at Cannes in ‘66, Anita Ekberg in “La Dolce Vita.” I am so beautiful that it has become grotesque. Fellini-esque. Of course, at that point, I fell down the stairs. But that doesn’t matter. I was beautiful. So beautiful that I could be scarcely looked at, yet at the same time unavoidable. So beautiful that it was difficult to move from one part of the room to the other. So beautiful that I missed the chance to talk to my friends because men kept blocking my way to speak to me. It took me almost an hour to go to the bathroom because I just kept getting hit on. I was swept away from my husband and lost in sea of admirers that I didn’t really intend to jump into. Flashbulbs blinded me and my neck hurt from the weight of the feathers on my head.
Suddenly, I saw a pair of them, other beautiful girls. Two of them, standing near the doorway, slowly smoking and sparkling like twin stars. I walked over to them, and said hi. They said nothing. They turned away. They blew smoke in my direction, to answer my greeting. “You guys look great.” More smoke signals. “Who made your outfits?” The one grasped the other’s arm and jerkily pulled her away from me. Beautiful is not supposed to be friends with beautiful, I guess. Or maybe they thought I was more beautiful, but it wasn’t a contest. At least not to me. It wasn’t fun anymore. Now it seemed sad. I hated this beauty. It was useless. It was lonely. It was boring.
I got my beautiful any way he does it man, stopped by Elliott Smith’s memorial wall on the way back to the car. Now he, he was beautiful.
We went home, and I de-feathered myself. Thankfully, beauty is easier to remove than apply, and a swipe of demaquillage in the right direction and you are you once again. I was relieved to be with me, ugly but perfect me. My dogs certainly like me better when they are allowed to lick my face, the beauty of me is what I smell like to them. Love.
I want to go as a gorilla next time.
March 26th, 2008 at 2:24 am
This is a great story, if a bit bittersweet, and I would love to dress up and be fabulous with you.