The little white dress manifesto

From Swaddling Bands to Funereal Shrouds wrap us in white cloth.

Wear your little white dress with pride.

This is not the LITTLE BLACK DRESS you will seduce in.

This is not the BIG WHITE DRESS you will marry in.

This is your little white dress.

This is your blank canvas.

This is the least practical garment you own.

This will show every stain, every crease, every tear.

This will mop up spilled milk and erase smudged mascara.

This will wipe away your tears and soak up your blood.

This will get splattered in paint and ink and charcoal.

This will get tangled in bicycle spokes and trees.

This will get shorter as your legs grow longer.

This will get tighter as your hips grow wider.

This will turn see through in the rain.

This will reflect the moonlight.

Never wash your little white dress for it tells your life story.

In your little white dress you are visible. Every beam of light will be drawn to it and rebound and you shall not go unnoticed. Every move you make will be subject to scrutiny.

There is no hiding.

The little white dress will stay pure as long as you choose to stay pure.

The little white dress will stay ironed as long as you choose to stay still.

The little white dress will fit as long as you choose not to change.

Show your workings, show your methods, show your seams, show your mistakes.

In a darkened room the girl in the little white dress will shine.

On a spotlit stage the girl in the little white dress is seen.

In a riot the girl in the little white dress turns her dress black with soot and red with blood and wears her opinions on her sleeve.

Your bloodshot eyes are so red next to your little white dress.

Your blushing cheeks are so pink next to your little white dress.

Your frozen fingers are so blue next to your little white dress.

Your stained teeth are so yellow next to your little white dress.

Little girls and strong women and fine ladies wear the little white dress.

Daughters and Sisters and Mothers wear the little white dress.

Wrap yourself in canvas, in curtains, in cotton wool but let it show us who you are and what you have done and where you have been.

The little white dress is a blank sheet of paper, a stretched canvas, an uncharted map, an empty frame, an unwritten book, a clean carpet, a winter garden, a freshly scrubbed face, an untested recipe, a blueprint, a therapist, a doctor, an artist, an architect, a poet, a politician, an athlete, a lawyer, a shaman, an icon.

The little white dress cannot tell a lie.

The little white dress presents itself as conclusive evidence.

The little white dress has a story to tell you.

The little white dress is here and will not leave until you have made your mark upon it.

The little white dress is a force to be reckoned with.

Amusements VS. Velocity Pumps: A Question of Fetishisation

The experience of watching theatre at a festival is very different to that of watching a standalone piece, as inevitably seeing so many different shows back to back means you start to connect the dots, finding links and readings that couldn’t possibly happen if you saw those shows individually.

Friday night at the Flare Weekender had two shows, which on their own I would have found interesting, arresting even, but which in contrast to each other had a very intense effect on me.

Amusements by Sleepwalk Collective is a darkly voyeuristic show, manipulating your senses through a pair of headphones, letting the performer Iara Solano whisper in your ear as she tugs at your memories, playing with your consent and gazing at you with tears in her eyes.

Velocity Pumps by Beerman, Shvestarova, Theisen consists of three young women isolating parts of their body and contorting them into bodybuilding or balletic poses designed to strain the muscles til we see the bulge, the girls breath racing, their veins popping.

Both of these shows seemed focussed around fragmenting the female body, albeit to different intents and purposes.

 Iara invited us to watch her disappear, her lips, her legs, her blood, her skin. Her few movements draw our attention to the areas of her body most sensitive to touch. The voice of a strange unseen man in our ears asking us if he can touch himself while he watches the girl makes us feel trapped, horribly, in a dark and twisted peep show. We do not know if the girl consents, we just know that she is removing her knickers for him. She is broken down into components to be sexualised, fetishised, worshipped and adored. She is broken down into these parts until she disappears from view, leaving only a pair of stilettos to mark where the woman once was.

Conversely Velocity Pumps showed us the parts of the body women are so often expected to hide, to neglect. We saw women with muscles, with sweat, with blood pumping through their veins not to please men but to increase and show off their strength and power. We focus on calves and lats, biceps and abs, and revel in seeing someone work so hard. But the smiles are forced, the breathing laboured, the cheeks flushed. For us to appreciate the strength of these women they must put on a show for us. They must turn this strength to dancing. We must be entertained, not intimidated. The world of the bodybuilder is one steeped in vanity and well-worn poses, a world that feels faintly ridiculous. This is strength with no place to go, power with nothing to be powerful over. Once again this is fetishisation of the body, though a fetishisation of the body’s capability to perform, not simply to… well, to make new bodies.

These two shows on their own would have made me think, I may have ‘enjoyed’ them more individually, but in tandem they have made me seriously question the use of the female body in performance and the place and purpose of such fetishisation. Highly thought provoking work, and well recommended.

(cross posted on the Flare Weekender Blog.)