Allegory Of The Closet

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I was away to the Homeland for some time, busy sponging waves of human drama but not forgetting about my own.

I was told that Mother Earth is currently shifting energies, transitioning from yin to yang (or the other way around) which explains the series of catastrophes, diseases and fights since the beginning of the year.

Don’t we all magnetically feel an impending change coming? There may be hope for better tomorrows.

I am initiating my deep changes as well. OK, I say that all the time. But right now, I swear it is different.

I am feeling at a similar stage of my life as back in the summer of 2009. When my nerves broke. I often think about that episode. It’s the period of time when I finally got the courage to bury and mourn for my heterosexuality. I had to endure a nervous breakdown to officially come out of the closet.

I fucked a boy for the last time in the Spring of that year, the week that I started my internship as a cultural journalist. I was 25. He was a tango teacher from Columbia wearing Hawaiian shirts. It ended in my blood. After that, I buried myself in work around the clock and became the shadow of myself. At least, I wasn’t thinking. My subconscious – or some mysterious spiritual forces – started manifesting, though.

A very visceral and deep structural change operated in my guts despite myself. I was harassed by homoerotic dreams after seeing Sunshine Cleaning, an American indie movie. There was this party scene where the so desirable Emily Blunt wears a candy necklace. A girl eats from her neck. Oh man. I remember the shiver in my body in the obscurity of the cinema. I wanted to be the girls on screen. All the gay people in the world have their cult homoerotic scenes, the ones that triggered their own desire. (Ask around, it’s a funny game). I have 3: the sweet derrière of Mylène Farmer in the clip of Pourvu qu’elles soient douces (I was 7)Cécile de France in L’Auberge espagnole (I was 19) and the inénarrable Emily Blunt.

I am grateful that my desire finally grew stronger than my will.

With all the messy changes in my core and my broken nerves in the background, I got close to a girl I was working with. She was more or less at the same stage of her lesbian life as me. We were talking more and more about our doubts and desires during our evening shifts at the sublime and posh concert hall Salle Pleyel. The night before I flew to Toronto for my American summer tour, I made her sleep over at mine after my leaving party where we all ended up in our underwear. Everyone left and I don’t know how I made her stay. Then, I made the first move. I clearly remember the moment when she opened my lips to kiss me. Something flowed in my brain. Her tongue swept away all the remnants of the heterosexual preconceptions that I had of myself. She uprooted my certitudes and moved them to Lesboland.

I left to the Americas in the morning with a 9 week adventure ahead of me. I needed to digest my new identity far away from my mother tongue.

That’s funny, I saw that girl again last week. We remained good friends. She’s getting married in July to her girlfriend and is hoping to be pregnant by the end of the year. She picked the same wedding dress as her fiancée without knowing. As for me, I fuck coke addicts in cars and explore the world on my own. Everything’s at the right place. Our intimate worlds only collided that one night, and it was great that way.

Six years have gone by and I am again on the verge of a nervous breakdown of a different kind. How many times do I have to collapse to reach my true colours? I’m feeling the urge of a new coming out, as strong as the sexual one. I want my deep identity to explode to the face of the world. I believe I am a closeted creative soul and I’m ashamed to say that I want my life to be about that.

There’s something taboo in the action of creating something, because the result only exists in the eye of whoever will watch and like you, and I hate begging for attention. I like being liked, but I don’t want to do anything at all to make people like me. It doesn’t interest me to chase love and recognition. If you like me, good for you, but if you don’t, I won’t try one bit to convince you.

This is how I am a closeted creative girl.

Every single one of my skin pores is sweating for change though, and I am close to implosion, as if my creativity needed to get laid by the right person. I can’t think of a better image. Sex & creation are pretty much the same struggle.

Anyway, everything changes all the time and my life constantly bounces like a kangaroo, but there is one element of steadiness. A recurrent question burns my thoughts till obsession.

Who’s going to love me body & soul? And above all, who’s going to love my brain?

Photos by me (check out that framing!)

1. Grave of Mme Troboa Murcella Asskari (1970-1994) at Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris 2. ‘Trying to be Frida’ by artist Emilio Lopez-Menchero 3. Altered Image I by Deborah Kass (copy of a picture of Andy Warhol dressed as a girl) 4. Evelyn, the cat I live with 5. Simona, a lady I met at the Bull Dog in Brighton. We had the same coat and the same earrings. 6. Anonymous street art in East London 7. Billie Holiday in 1948 photographed by William P. Gottlieb 8. Summer, a cat who lived at my house for a month but left today because she was mean to Evelyn 9. Transgender Miss in Latin America 10. Collection of Jesus statues at my neighbours’ who got them from a movie set they worked on

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Ultimate Stage : A Day in Toronto

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Between New York and London, I had an anecdotic 20 hour wait at Toronto airport to connect flights. How thoughtful of Air Canada! I have friends in Toronto that I never see within their natural habitat. I was therefore all excited to arrange an impromptu rendez-vous with them.

After the usual airport and transit bullshit, I found myself hanging out somewhere in Toronto with a miserable 3 hours of sleep in the system. I don’t know this city very well, because I have mostly transited through it. I shamefully ended up at Starbucks just because of the wi-fi (OK, and maple coffee specials). My US phone doesn’t like Canada and I was a pain to reach.

While I was getting hold of ∆ε and με, I slept at the Starbucks counter like a homeless (again). I was checking every now and then if the baristas were giving the impression they were about to ask me to leave the premises, but they let me power nap in peace. Bless them. There was a guy seating next to me, teaching a drawing class to a girl. More exactly, a caricature drawing class. He was randomly showing her customers of the café and chop-chop-chop she was drawing them in a few lines. I was hoping she would caricature me in my sleep but it didn’t happen (I love getting that kind of attention). I guess I was seating too close. 

At 4pm, ∆ε and με picked me up. They were unexpectedly with πρ, whom I met in Paris with the guys a few years ago. ∆ε is turning 75 in September, and he is a living legend and a key figure of modern dance in Canada. He and πρ used to dance in the Martha Graham Company in New York City so they have the hell of anecdotes about the Great Priestess of modern dance. When they tell about their life, it is a mix between a university lecture of history of dance and gossip magazines, because they have some unofficial stories about a few legends of the 20th Century. 

ε and πρ founded together with a third person the Toronto Dance Theatre in 1968, implementing the technique and influence of Martha Graham in Canada.  I met ∆ε in 2003 when I was a dance student in Québec City. He was teaching for 2 weeks and he connected me to my dance heavenly vault. I can’t think of a better image. I remember that the walls of the studio seemed to be pushed back, the ceiling felt higher and this whole worship and spiritual dimension kicked in. ∆ε can teach a whole class without barely speaking. Graham technique is like a secret language and its disciples belong to a secret society. But when he speaks, YOU LISTEN, because every single information is a goldmine, and possibly a big clue to your journey towards dance truth. 

I attended 2 summer schools with his dance company in Guelph, a little town near the big one. We’ve been friends ever since. He is a devoted francophile who often teaches me one or two things about my own country. We catch up on either side of the ocean, mine or theirs. Both sides are actually ours as we don’t necessarily feel home where we were born, and our meetings are always short, wonderful and unexpected. I had last seen them in east London less than a year ago, in ∆ε’s first love’s house which is a veritable 4-floor art gallery opposite to the house of Gilbert & George.

ε is in a cult couple with με, one of his dancers, 30 years younger than him. I love them together. They are one of these creative collaborating couples that I aim to be in some day. They don’t have time for bullshitting each other like most couples do because they’ve always channeled their energy in a creative way. 

This time, ε and πρ started talking about a performance they did at the Espace Pierre Cardin in Paris years ago. They mentioned that they were in Paris in May 68 so they witnessed the historical mess, but I am not sure if the Pierre Cardin story was that year or later on. πρ said that Pierre Cardin was a “total jerk” (sic) who loved himself way too much and was unable to pour his own drinks without a handful of domestics serving him. One day after rehearsal, Pierre Cardin gave them a tour of his office. He was like: “What do you think? I designed everything myself.” πρ was laughing to tears when he explained that his desk was designed in a handbag shape and that Pierre Cardin was obviously proud of it. Pierre Cardin later told them that he really liked their dance show because “he was ahead of himself” and was therefore entitled to understand the subtility of dance avant-garde. Then, ∆ε and πρ told a trip they did through Italy, where they stayed at a lovely hotel, thinking people were very weird until they found out it wasn’t a hotel but a sanatorium. 

Every time I catch up with my living legends, I get a handful of excellent stories which make me see art history, or life in general, under a different light and we have so much laughter. I am not missing a word when I spend time with them, it always makes me see things in a more laid-back, inspiring and reassuring light.

In the meantime, my amazing friend Ν had joined us. She is a beautiful mixed-race dancer with more hair than me, which is quite an achievement. She dances with the Toronto Dance Theatre. She actually is a natural version of a drag-queen (way more than I can ever claim to be), cause she’s tall, muscular and has exaggerated hair and outfits. I met her at the summer dance intensive with ∆ε’s company in 2009. We shared the same house and we remained friends ever since. She is positive, loud and retro. I’ve never seen her down. I love her. 

I stayed over at her French-decorated flat for the night. Her cute flatmate was there, an adorable 23 year old gay dancer from Québec City (we studied at the same school). He picked some spoons out of the freezer and put them on his eyes to decongest them. Interesting image. I love to steal gay boys their beauty tricks. He was on his way out to a famous drag queen contest. Oh no! It sounded like a call from destiny. I would have totally gone with him and been crazy till dawn if it wasn’t for a silly plane taking me back to an overseas life I don’t want a few hours later. And actually, for the first time in weeks, I was excited to go to bed. Sigh. I observed him for a moment. He was exactly what I want to be in my next life. I want to be a young beautiful gay male dancer with insolent beauty and fuck everyone without constraint. This is totally what I was programmed to be, but then the gender thing went wrong. Dammit. I envy gay boys for the sexual freedom they grant to themselves. I do that too, but as a girl, I find more obstacles on my way. It is still more difficult for girls to have unconventional and free sex lives, because many girls are their worst enemy. I find that a lot of them are scared, judge themselves or think too hard.

It was the first time in ages that I felt disappointed to be me and not something completely opposite, because New York had a soothing effect on me : I was the right thing at the right place at the right time. I stepped out of my City and in less than a day I was caught back by my companion fantasies of who else I want to be.

I stayed in with Ν and we watched ‘Flash Dance’ eating blueberry pie, which was wonderful too. How could I spend so long without watching Flash Dance? I vow to have a refresher every year. 

At 5am, a cab picked me up to my final destination. I was so dead from 7 weeks of intense life embracing that I fell asleep on the plane instantly and didn’t even feel the take off.

Thus finished my Spring 2014 North American Tour.

As soon as I got in London, a Brooklyn sign hit my eye on the underground.