Margo Christie's Blog, page 3
February 8, 2013
HOW THINGS MIGHT'VE GONE FOR OLD BURLESQUE
HOW THINGS MIGHT’VE GONE FOR OLD BURLESQUE HAD THE FOCUS NOT BEEN ON “SKIN”
Of the cultural phenomena that can be said to have struck a blow to old burlesque, one is the sexual revolution of the 1960s and its greater freedoms for women. Consider, for example, the bikini, popularized by Ursula Andress (left). Though two-piece swimsuits were popular on American beaches in the early 40s, these were mostly the high-rise version that concealed the navel and upper thigh. The modern bikini, with low-rise bottoms and string sides, debuted in France in 1946 but would have to wait until 1962, when Bond-girl Andress emerged from the sea in this scene from “Dr. No.”
Andress’s era, the early 60s, roughly coincides with the beginning of the end of old burlesque, and one look at Andress’s dripping-wet, barely-clad form reveals why. By comparison, burlesque queens like Kitty Lynne (right) must’ve looked rather quaint. Andress’s image is empowered (holding a knife) and freely sexual (out in the open), where to see Lynne display her charms one had to buy a ticket and risk social stigma. With the advent of sexual freedom, no longer did the American male have to duck into the dank darkness of an inner-city burlesque theater to see beautiful women so scantily clad. Andress’s bikini is cited as the most famous bikini of all time, and sales of the bikini skyrocketed in the wake of its pivotal debut. As a performer of “New Burlesque” and an 1970s stripper, I happen to prefer the image of Kitty Lynne to that of Ursula Andress, but to each his own. The bottom line is that the 1960s ushered in an era unprecedented in freedoms for women. Where women in the first half of the 20 century were raised to be sexually chaste, women in the second half could openly express their sexuality. The differences in costume, make-up and hair notwithstanding, the obvious difference between the two images is locale – Ms. Andress’s beauty is on display out-of-doors; Miss Lynne’s is confined to the theater, a place of some questionable repute in the first half of the 20century. Odd it strikes me that while women were gaining greater freedom in the arenas of politics and career, women in burlesque and the offshoot strip joint became further objectified. No longer could striptease entertainment be seen as a glorifying of the female form. Women were gaining greater power and independence across the board, and some males responded by further objectifying them. The strip joint remained the one place where men retained power over women, even if just in a fantasy sense. From personal experience I know this to be true. During the late 70s, when I started stripping on Baltimore’s Block, my mom, an office administrator, could fully expect to be paid less than her male counterparts as a matter of policy. She could also expect to be labeled a secretary regardless of her job duties and to be sexually harassed with little or nothing in the way of recourse. Yet the male strip joint customer in those years was, generally-speaking, a gentleman who treated the girls and women of The Block decently, if not respectfully. It seemed that though his businessman’s lunch might call for a little titillation, there was no need to be crude about it! As time wore on, however, as the 80s and 90s ushered in greater equality for women in the workplace and in politics, this no longer seemed to be the case. The 90s were the years I remember as the most difficult to be a stripper. Those were the years when it seemed men came to strip joints to humiliate and wield power over women. Striptease entertainment hung in there post-1970s by way of explicitly showing more and more skin. Performers competed with pornography and changing sexual mores by going full-nude. Today, as a performer of “New Burlesque,” I find myself wondering how things might’ve gone for old burlesque had producers put their focus on the quality and variety of show rather than competing with pornography by showing more and more. On Baltimore’s Block, there were some – notably Pam Gail of the Oasis Nite Club – who did this. Along with a partner who’d spent his life working in carnivals, Pam booked burlesque acts into travelling carnivals as late as the mid-80s. My dear friend and mentor Lynn Christie was one of the acts she booked.
In the late 80s Pam’s partner, a guy I remember only as Eli, started booking acts into a porno theater he owned. A fan of classic burlesque, Eli insisted his performers strip out of gowns, gloves and boas, and strip no further than pasties and a g-string. Imagine the challenge of stripping down to pasties and a g-string in a theater that showed XXX porn between live burlesque shows! In 1986, I got booked to work at Eli’s theater, The Lee, in Richmond. I’m certain it was a loss for Eli. The crowds were slim and during one show I got booed! Not to worry, though, I’d been struggling to maintain a burlesque-y image in my stripping for 5 or 6 years by then, so I considered a badge of honor to get booed in a theater whose patrons were there for hard-core porn. My girl Lynn Christie carried it off, though, and one look at her 5’2”, 38-24-38 figure reveals why! She performed burlesque in porn theaters in Baltimore and beyond and always kept it classy! (Hats off to you, Lynnie-Belle!) The operation at The Lee went like this: It was open from 7 a.m. - 1 a.m. At noon, 3, 9, and midnight, the burlesque act – one dancer at a time, rotated in on a weekly basis – would be announced. The theater was then cleared and tickets re-sold. This tended to eliminate the patrons who might be inclined to boo the poor burlesque dancer! Though the crowd thinned considerably with the announcement of live burlesque, it was gratifying to see some came specifically for that. There were even a few regulars! Though we weren’t inclined to mingle with them like we would’ve if the venue had been a strip joint, it was gratifying to see there were some who still came out for burlesque.
Of the cultural phenomena that can be said to have struck a blow to old burlesque, one is the sexual revolution of the 1960s and its greater freedoms for women. Consider, for example, the bikini, popularized by Ursula Andress (left). Though two-piece swimsuits were popular on American beaches in the early 40s, these were mostly the high-rise version that concealed the navel and upper thigh. The modern bikini, with low-rise bottoms and string sides, debuted in France in 1946 but would have to wait until 1962, when Bond-girl Andress emerged from the sea in this scene from “Dr. No.”
Andress’s era, the early 60s, roughly coincides with the beginning of the end of old burlesque, and one look at Andress’s dripping-wet, barely-clad form reveals why. By comparison, burlesque queens like Kitty Lynne (right) must’ve looked rather quaint. Andress’s image is empowered (holding a knife) and freely sexual (out in the open), where to see Lynne display her charms one had to buy a ticket and risk social stigma. With the advent of sexual freedom, no longer did the American male have to duck into the dank darkness of an inner-city burlesque theater to see beautiful women so scantily clad. Andress’s bikini is cited as the most famous bikini of all time, and sales of the bikini skyrocketed in the wake of its pivotal debut. As a performer of “New Burlesque” and an 1970s stripper, I happen to prefer the image of Kitty Lynne to that of Ursula Andress, but to each his own. The bottom line is that the 1960s ushered in an era unprecedented in freedoms for women. Where women in the first half of the 20 century were raised to be sexually chaste, women in the second half could openly express their sexuality. The differences in costume, make-up and hair notwithstanding, the obvious difference between the two images is locale – Ms. Andress’s beauty is on display out-of-doors; Miss Lynne’s is confined to the theater, a place of some questionable repute in the first half of the 20century. Odd it strikes me that while women were gaining greater freedom in the arenas of politics and career, women in burlesque and the offshoot strip joint became further objectified. No longer could striptease entertainment be seen as a glorifying of the female form. Women were gaining greater power and independence across the board, and some males responded by further objectifying them. The strip joint remained the one place where men retained power over women, even if just in a fantasy sense. From personal experience I know this to be true. During the late 70s, when I started stripping on Baltimore’s Block, my mom, an office administrator, could fully expect to be paid less than her male counterparts as a matter of policy. She could also expect to be labeled a secretary regardless of her job duties and to be sexually harassed with little or nothing in the way of recourse. Yet the male strip joint customer in those years was, generally-speaking, a gentleman who treated the girls and women of The Block decently, if not respectfully. It seemed that though his businessman’s lunch might call for a little titillation, there was no need to be crude about it! As time wore on, however, as the 80s and 90s ushered in greater equality for women in the workplace and in politics, this no longer seemed to be the case. The 90s were the years I remember as the most difficult to be a stripper. Those were the years when it seemed men came to strip joints to humiliate and wield power over women. Striptease entertainment hung in there post-1970s by way of explicitly showing more and more skin. Performers competed with pornography and changing sexual mores by going full-nude. Today, as a performer of “New Burlesque,” I find myself wondering how things might’ve gone for old burlesque had producers put their focus on the quality and variety of show rather than competing with pornography by showing more and more. On Baltimore’s Block, there were some – notably Pam Gail of the Oasis Nite Club – who did this. Along with a partner who’d spent his life working in carnivals, Pam booked burlesque acts into travelling carnivals as late as the mid-80s. My dear friend and mentor Lynn Christie was one of the acts she booked.
In the late 80s Pam’s partner, a guy I remember only as Eli, started booking acts into a porno theater he owned. A fan of classic burlesque, Eli insisted his performers strip out of gowns, gloves and boas, and strip no further than pasties and a g-string. Imagine the challenge of stripping down to pasties and a g-string in a theater that showed XXX porn between live burlesque shows! In 1986, I got booked to work at Eli’s theater, The Lee, in Richmond. I’m certain it was a loss for Eli. The crowds were slim and during one show I got booed! Not to worry, though, I’d been struggling to maintain a burlesque-y image in my stripping for 5 or 6 years by then, so I considered a badge of honor to get booed in a theater whose patrons were there for hard-core porn. My girl Lynn Christie carried it off, though, and one look at her 5’2”, 38-24-38 figure reveals why! She performed burlesque in porn theaters in Baltimore and beyond and always kept it classy! (Hats off to you, Lynnie-Belle!) The operation at The Lee went like this: It was open from 7 a.m. - 1 a.m. At noon, 3, 9, and midnight, the burlesque act – one dancer at a time, rotated in on a weekly basis – would be announced. The theater was then cleared and tickets re-sold. This tended to eliminate the patrons who might be inclined to boo the poor burlesque dancer! Though the crowd thinned considerably with the announcement of live burlesque, it was gratifying to see some came specifically for that. There were even a few regulars! Though we weren’t inclined to mingle with them like we would’ve if the venue had been a strip joint, it was gratifying to see there were some who still came out for burlesque.
August 7, 2012
Dancing in the Rain: Why it worked for Gene Kelly
Ah, the nurturing quality of a summer rain. When I was a child, my sister and I would don our bathing suits to tramp around in a rain strorm, our sopping hair slapping our backs as we splashed barefoot through ankle-deep puddles. We’d toss our heads back to gaze skyward at the unrelenting downpour, letting fat drops pelt our hot, dirty faces. Perhaps because we were raised by dysfunctional, alcoholic parents, no one told us this wasn't okay, not even with the threat of lightening strikes. Today, I remember this as one of the freeing experiences of youth in the lush Baltimore suburb where I grew up. Those were the days before adolescence, before my self-image got kidnapped by teen magazines that warned against going around in public looking like a drenched sheep dog. Yesterday it rained buckets in the Denver area. Indeed, it appeared to be raining buckets already to the south and west, as my fiancé and I gazed at the horizon from our home near Old Town Arvada. I wanted to go for a walk. Like Henry David Thoreau, who described his immediate environment as so full of nuance and surprise as to render travelling elsewhere unnecessary, I like to get to know my surroundings. John, on the other hand, is a bit more reserved. An amateur weather man, he prides himself on being able to read the horizon. After 9 years as his partner, I should know his predictions are nearly always accurate. But I persisted and he lovingly obliged, changing into practical shoes, locating his umbrella to embark on a walk through Old Town with me. By the time we reached Grandview Avenue, a high point from which the dark, foreboding horizon was especially visible, a light rain had begun to fall. He announced he was turning back. Again, maybe it is due to my dysfunctional childhood, but I rarely let weather – or anything – deter me from doing what I yearn to do. Telling him I’d meet him back at the house, I pressed on, flipping open my 1960s vintage umbrella as I proceeded across the Grandview Avenue Bridge to the other side of Wadsworth Bypass. There, the houses are Victorian and irrigation water is provided via a drainage ditch that runs along the sidewalk. There, every home has a small pump house somewhere in the yard and the gurgle and trickle of water is pleasantly ever-present. It’s a beautiful old neighborhood, country-like and reminiscent of a simpler time, the time in which I grew up, perhaps. By the time I reached Marshall Street, my usual turning-around point, I was in the midst of a torrential storm. Sheets of rain blew sideways, pelting my chest and abdomen, soaking my clothes. Lightening strikes lit up the sky, and I have to admit I worried a bit about that lightening-rod of a two-inch metal tip at the top of my umbrella. But I didn’t collapse it. Trusty old vestige of a time when products were built to last, that umbrella never once turned inside-out, even when the wind blew sheets of rain under it and across my face. My hair, except for the very ends of it, remained completely dry for the entire walk. My shoes were an entirely different matter. After five minutes or so of downpour, there were rivers of water running down the streets and sidewalks. Like the child of 40-some years ago – bare feet slapping across wet pavement and splashing in puddles – I trudged through those rivers, joy-filled and laughing. Like getting baptized, I was reconnecting with a lost, primal me, the Artist-Child of
Julia Cameron’s
creativity-provoking self-help books. According to Cameron, most of us have a creative inner child, a child who was taught early-on that painting, drawing, writing, and other creative pursuits are the impractical pastimes of air-headed dreamers. That child is playful but bruised; and needs to be teased out of hiding. “Silly,” “irresponsible” behavior like tramping around in a rain storm is one way to reach that child. Walking back through Old Town, I watched people dash from their cars to bars and restaurants, heads huddled against the downpour. I passed a beauty salon, where all activity seemed to cease as stylists gathered at the window, doubtlessly glad they were dry inside. Nearing our house, I passed an apartment balcony, where a young woman sat Buddha-like beyond the open sliding door, gazing outward at the passing storm. She smiled at me and I smiled back, a connection that seemed based on a primal understanding of the nurturing quality of rain.
