But first I have to work until 3pm because I have used up all my annual leave to go to New York and they don't close the stupid office over Christmas time. Still there are upsides to my caging today given that it is 37 degrees outside. The air is thick, sticky and hot out there and, was already so at 8am this morning. Each time you step out there, it wraps around your body like a cocoon, a pocket of air trying to roast you to a crisp. So being in a 22 degree air-conditioned office is, I guess, not too bad. However the boredom is battling with my adrenaline filled body, I feel like a bubbly champagne bottle, just waiting to be popped open because of my excitement and nerves of doing tonight's show - I'm not sure why I am so nervous this time round - it's not like I haven't performed before, I think it's because this time round my solo is completely stamped by me. My costume was made by me, I picked the music, I chose and created the character, I envisaged the story and came up with the choreography - this work is all mine and tonight I find out if an audience will enjoy it or not.
I am doing the show with two other girls Sheree (aka Scarlett) and Frankie (aka Pepper Lee) - two gorgeous girls that are cherished friends and I am more than delighted to be sharing the stage with these beauties. By late afternoon, we are all hiding in the bottom lounge at Sheree's house, hiding away from the ongoing heat that still bears down on the city, making it feel exhausted. We all suck down on cool, fruity icy poles, a treat because of the brazen sun. We are putting off getting ready as long as possible knowing the heat will try it's very best to mar our creative efforts.
Nail polish first, and of course the perfect partner to begin our transformation, flutes of champagne. The bottle, when opened, popped with such ferocity from the heat - there seems to be some pressure in the air giving everything in it an unusual kinetic energy. You can almost hear the creaking sounds of the city as it is pushed to the limits, beading with sweat and slowly melting, we watch as the dark clouds of breaking point roll in to aid the burnt and blistered.
Mirrors are everywhere, hair is curled, pinned and teased, bright colours don our cheeks and and lips and large fluttering lashes now perfect our eyes. The three of us are a creation of fabulousness, only missing our sparkly costume robes which we save to put on when we are in the 'dressing room'. The day has now given in, had enough - the sky fills with impressive light shows of the natural kind, followed by the grumbly old man of thunder, who curses the sun for the havoc it has caused. The rain starts to fall, the earth sighs in ectasy with a relieving snake-like hissing sound, as the cool droplets of water put out the fires that have risen within the scorching paths and roads. Umbrellas in hand, we all scramble into the car (actually the giant sized, manly, off road vehicle that Sheree's partner has lent us. Such a sight to see 3 pretty and petite girls in such a monster metal of a truck) the cool change is welcomed, but we still protect our painted faces from the rain that threatens to transform us into clowns.
The scene in which we are to play, is of perfection. Low lead lighting hums from the old light fittings, the twinkling of tea lights under white candle holders create a warm and inviting glow. The old mahogany wooden bar lines the room, standing tall like a man that is growing finer into his age. Strong edges carved into the bar gives it a gentle feel, like smile creases on ones face. An army of wine bottles surround the bar splashing the room with colour, blood red and golden white and a palate in between from all the different labels. The rest of the surrounding walls are plastered with colourful wall paper, beautiful framed pictures and random pictures stuck in between, peeping through, everything overlapping, leaving not a single blank space. If one looks hard enough through the collage, you are faced with a smooth round bottom or a voluptuous breast - the risque photography of the late 19th Century. The dark, wooden tables contrast the clean pressed white napkins, the wine glasses are the size of soup bowels, the silver cutlery is polished and an unimaginable amount of tables are squeezed into the tiny space. Guests of 4 and 6 and even couples surround the place - all so different - all so lovely - all ready to be played with. They feast on a decadent 6 courses, a range of french delicacies to excite their tasting palate. A murmur of chatter fills the space above their heads, hanging peacefully like angels in the clouds, watching over the loved ones. The air is friendly and warm, relaxed and at peace, while the cool change cheekily whistles through the legs of the chairs and people, filling the room with excitement and energy. The rain patters down at a steady beat - and everyone waits for the show.
We are costumed - colours of creams, whites, pinks, purples, blacks from materials such as pearls, lace, satin, nylon cover our skin. It is oh so hot in the back room, so we retreat to the side hall, with a door that welcomes the night sky in - the naughty wind almost bowls us over, the coolness of the rain sends tingles into our flesh. We are called through to begin. A quick trip through the blistering heat of the kitchen, the chefs with cheeky smiles on their faces, we are introduced and our music begins to play. Firstly a flirtatious dance to begin with - the crowd are different than usual, slightly more conservative than usual and from a glance at all the faces their are expressions of modesty and shyness, trying not to look, although some are faces of glee and cheekiness, with a certain hope of what may come.
To our places for our solos, we begin with a masquerade, an interlude of dark circus music plays, creating mystery and mystique. A white mask begins to travel to each table, a black regal beehive adorned with soft and shimmering feathers stands tall above the mask, with grace and dignity. With a pop of the music we glide, with a waltz, into the pomp and ceremony of Edith Piaf's Padam, Padam. Lace gloves are slowly taken off, accepted by the audience with sheer delight. With a gorgeous wiggle of a petite bottom, a fru fru skirt swishes delicately to the floor, exposing a satin girdle and a cheeky grin. A black lace fan is opened, which covers the virtues of her olive skinned body, whilst a top is undone. Then slowly and seductively draped over an audience members shoulder, she cooly pads by, inspecting the feast of eyes, feasting on her. The climax comes, the fan swoops into the air and the reveal is made with a rainfall of glitter to end the piece.
A piano interlude begins, and a bride begins to get ready for her big day. She takes down the locket hanging off a rose lamp, looks lovingly at the picture of her true love and hangs it around her neck. She picks up her veil and carefully and places into her hair. she slowly pirouettes so the everyone can she what a beautiful bride she makes. She tenderly picks up her bouquet of cottage pick roses and with a final check stands and waits..... and waits..... and waits. The music notes change from a melody filled with happiness to singular notes of sadness. A member of the audience knows what is happening.... leans forward and whispers....."he's not coming is he".....
The music changes into a dreamlike version of Que Sera Sera by Pink Martini and the drama begins. The bride possessed begins to rip off her gown! The is much crying into sleeves, back bending dramatically into laps, blowing ones nose into napkins on peoples laps and drinking peoples wine. But wait.... Is that her love in the crowd, at the back there? She runs to him knowing he wouldn't leave her and plunges his head into her breast and when she looks closer... gasps... it is alas, a stranger... it was all her imagination, with that, the music draws to it's peak and she throws off what is left of the bridal wear for the reveal. Remembering the locket, she opens it, looks at it and buries it into her chest. Pain is felt and she realises her heart has literally bled for him.... this cad.... he is not worth her blood. With a swift yank, the locket is pulled from the neck and is deposited in somebody's water glass, she turns quickly, hands on hips and proudly marches off.
The music of sensuality fills the room, the red haired seductress takes the stage. Her smoldering eyes and blood red lips. One sharp look from her would send a virile man wild with the madness of lust. With elegant moves her white gloves are removed, her innocence at this point, lulling you into a false sense of security, her back bends and twirls - so soft, so slow, so flexible - you feel the audience begin to move and sway with her. She has got you. The music changes and the angels mischievous side comes out to play, strands of pearls are now gripped between her teeth, you watch and wish that it was you instead, that was gripped between her teeth. With one magnificent movement, her bouncing lace skirt is removed and you are left with pleasure of her alabaster skin and her twinkling sequined knickers that hit the light and cast rays around her like a shooting star.
The end piece - the fun, flirtatious, frivolity of New Year begins, with winks and kisses to all and sundry. Two of the girls are in position for their curtain call while the third is too busy flirting and kissing the older gentlemen! She looks around and skips quickly into line - the three of the blow luscious kisses into the air, with their hips out, swivel on their toes and in one movement they are gone - finished reaping havoc on an unsuspecting crowd.
With a pop of the champagne cork, the tickles of bubbles on the nose, the turn and blast of the confetti poppers and a sweet kiss on the cheek... or even better on the lips.....
...... It is the year of new. xx
(Photos by Francisca Venegas aka Frankie)
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