Transumtation through Dance
An Exercise in Setting the Scene
A thunderous boom diverges as I stamp the snake-headed staff onto the stage. The snake’s emerald green eyes catch and flicker as the back light permeates the gems. The roll of a Spanish guitar, evocative of the sounds of Santana, thrums and pounds the speakers. Purple light crawls up the sheen and shine of my black silk robe, with its fringed lace. A halo encircles the dazzling, silver crown atop my head. Emeralds adorn the regal crown and the reflections run headfirst into the light like lasers, slicing the dark, dingy room.
In my eyes is a fiery gaze, almost menacing, in its penetrability. It translates to my voyeurs and subjects, “Look at me. I will let you. But, just for tonight, of course. Because tonight, I am Serafina.”
I prance, powerfully down the steps, entering the floor in search of my first victim. The lounge is flooded with men in suits with jet black, slicked and oiled hair as they sit, dapper, in their seats waiting with angst and anticipation. Groups of women sit in their corseted dresses with expertly quaffed hair.
Waitresses whirl around the room, on its art deco carpet, gracefully, filling elegant coupe glasses with perfectly pearled bubbles. Glasses clink in celebration.
Beyond the thick, black, velvet curtain lies yet another world. A land of courage, sisterhood, vulnerability, and high heels. A pivotal purgatory, grooming us for transformation and transmutation.
A buzz emanates from the rounded incandescent bulbs that line the mirrors. Fierce heat radiates from the miniature globes that cast a ghastly light onto my face as I inspect my dramatic, feathery eyelashes, cat-eye eyeliner and lustrous crimson lips. Makeup is foreign to me, how to apply it, how to wear it. Still, I like the novelty of this character I have created.
Syrupy is the tiny room with varying perfumes of fruit, pastries and flowers mixed with the heat from the bulbs, curling irons and ceramic straighteners. Dilapidated wood is painted black to hide its weathered skin, where I imagine many rock stars have put out their cigarettes.
Lashes, makeup, glittering jewelry, and silk gloves are strewn over the splintering ebony wood.
Next to me is Miss Velvet Rose. Her ensemble is brilliantly embellished with silver rhinestones. The bright lighting sends them into a frenzy of twinkles, adding more glamour to her larger-than-life persona, now come to fruition. Her lips plump as she applies a gooey layer of sheen gloss of a blooming pink shade. Her eyeliner like whips slapped boldly upon her eyelids. Perfect blush pink curls frame her rounded face.
“Are you nervous?” Velvet Rose asks me.
“Yes, but I am soooo thrilled just to get to this point!” I say as I excitedly stomp my shimmery high heels repeatedly against the concrete floor.
“I can’t believe you’re up first!” she exclaims with a twinge of nerves and respect in her voice.
I practically shout, “Oh, shit, I prefer it that way. Are you kidding me? I can’t sit back here and wait. Keep hearing everyone’s name. . . that would freak me out!”
As I respond, I realize it would be torture be toward the end of the performances. My tummy would coil into anxious little snakes, circling ravenously in my belly, if I had to listen to every cheer, every piece of music. The dread would eat up all of this ecstatic joy and triumph I feel by just jumping up on that stage, both losing and finding myself within the challenge of setting the tone for this magical night.
Gently, she leans in toward me, and helps herself to the touching up of my lipstick. The intimacy of her kindness puts me at ease.
Mirrors line the walls like stations and an aged chaise lounge, the color of chartreuse, is perched in the corner with a full-length mirror crouched next to it. Gitana Rose is reclined on the sofa. Her raven black boa feathers trailing wistfully down her fishnet stockings. I examine myself in the mirror next to her. I am fussing with my robe; it’s too long and I am afraid I will trip.
My nerves begin to tickle my skin.
“I can tie that for you,” she offers.
“Oh, thank you! Will you please? I’m not good at this kind of thing.”
She stands behind me as she folds the robe, so simply, lifting it a good 4 inches off the ground. We peer into the mirror together. It will be both of our first times.
Women are spilling out into the tiny dressing room as showtime beckons. Voluptuous bodies are making last minute adjustments and hair spray is flying throughout the space in misted clouds smelling of candied fruits. Shot glasses raise as some take a dose of liquid courage.
The master of ceremonies makes the introduction to “Moonlighting Menagerie.” Out in the lounge, it is now pitch black. An air of delight and mystery swirls around the seedy club.
I take a deep breath.
I know when I walk back through the other side of that curtain, I will never be the same.
Burlesque Introspection
Violation of one’s soul is to carve a hole into the celestial sheet that is the human spirit. Only the most heinous and cruel invasions can dim the light of one’s natural divinity. A darkness seeps into the soul, then. Or the host frantically spends their life seeking a soothe only to feel a fleeting satisfaction. Still, others numb and repress until a monster begins to grow and fester, in the psyche and in the body.
But what if there is another way?
Can we reclaim our power?
Can we learn to befriend the manifested monster?
It was a sunny Sunday afternoon when I arrived at the studio. I climbed the creaky stairs with their stained burgundy carpeting. A group of scantily dressed women sat on a chocolate brown couch that held no shortage of Hollywood secrets in its torn, tattered leather upholstery. The class before ours was still finishing up. The women smiled. I smiled back. One of them had bright,green hair the color of slime. It immediately reminded me of Jack Nicholson’s rendition of The Joker. He was always my favorite maniacal genius. It comforted me.
It was to be my first class.
Burlesque with the Empowerment in Heels crew.
One by one, they came pouring in. The ladies. Fish nets, sparkly gold and silver heels, and sheer shapewear wrapped around legs and hips. I wore workout clothes and went barefoot.
The green haired enchantress floated into the room with a gaping smile as her red lips spread across her meticulously painted face. She clapped her hands.
“Hello Ladies. Happy Sunday Funday! Are we ready to move our bodies to some classic rock today or what?”
It turns out, the green haired fairy was the teacher. She was exuberant and brimming with enthusiasm. It was infectious.
Still, some women’s timidity was easily seen in their cowering posture and refusal to make eye contact; while others seemed so at home, gazing at themselves in the floor to ceiling mirrors with infatuation. I could glance occasionally, into the mirror, but not without feeling at least a sprinkle of shame about being self-absorbed or conceded. How dare I enjoy my own body and how it moves.
I have always loved to dance. It is one of the few moments in my life where I experience true peace and freedom from my captious mind. This was different. The point was to enjoy yourself, love yourself, not escape yourself.
It was an improv class where you were free to roam and explore your body in the space amongst other bodies. It was a welcoming atmosphere. I felt a mix of fascination and awkwardness.
After class, it was customary for the women to meet at the bar down the street for light bites and a cocktail. It was a time to get to know one another and build a community.
Miss Estelle was my first friend. She was a buxom babe with long, thin jet-black hair and almond brown eyes. She looked like a pin up doll. She turned out to be a twenty-three-year-old Scorpio who loved to DIY her costumes with feathers and rhinestones. We talked openly about everything. Her mother suffered from bi-polar syndrome, but she loved her very much and still loved to travel with her, even though it had proven to be difficult in the past.
We both confessed to having been sexually abused as children and went on to share some rather regretful moments from some of our relationships with men. Our conversation flowed with ease as if we were talking about the weather.
As I sipped my sangria, contemplatively, it occurred to me that many of these vivacious women, now laughing delightfully and filled with joy on this sunny patio, might all have a kind of wound or ache they are looking to reconcile.
Was it our collective need to heal that drew us all to this place?
I often wonder why it is in our nature, as humans, to pursue experiences so akin to that which harmed us in the first place. It’s as if we are drawn to it like a masochistic moth to a flame. Why is our healing buried, like a hidden treasure, in that which violated us?
One thing I can be certain of, is we refuse to remain victims. Instead, choosing to creatively transmute that pain and wear those holes in our bright souls the way we wear our holes in our fishnets: with a warrior-like pride, authenticity and glamour.
