THE VANITY BITCH

Female tactics: The tutu

I think it was one of the happiest days of my life. Actually, we all were. It was the expected moment: grade lunch. Memories fly by and I only see smiles, all arranged with tailors, neckties and dresses, but with a hippie aura still printed, and the three of us with giant roundabout skirts of satin colors with layers of tulle underneath. Divine. I smoothed my hair, put on some makeup, put on a black blouse and a sack of the same shade, black stockings cut to the calves and white ballet shoes. The skirt was pink with shimmering tones. Beauty Beauty. But before lunch, the principal of the school, one of the most alternative in Bogotá, talked with us, reminded us that we should carry the essence of Juan de Leon, the modesty in dress, the decency in clothes. We could not live on looks, he told us. The message was not for everyone, it was just for us that we emphasized almost as underlined by a neon color. However, she wore leather pants, securely bought in Argentina, four or five times more expensive than the three skirts combined: the contradiction in speeches.

London, spring-summer 2015

There are moments where you begin to translate your own language.

I practiced ballet for more than ten years and I never presented with the classic tutú: French or English, that barbed skirt that showed the legs. Maybe that's why I tried to grab hold of my roundabout skirt, because I still want it today. I remained a teenage ballerina, introducing myself with romantic bulging tutus below the knee. I was missing a year or two, to continue practicing to enter the company, to introduce myself in Ballet to the Park, to dance in the theater of the Che in Havana and not to remain like spectator. But the tutu is an image that is desired, without thinking of the effort that demands to have it.

London, fall-winter 2015

The center of the stage is lit up and there is a fat old nude, his name is George, and he is posing for several young girls who portray him. Actually they are models, one of them is wearing a pastel dress, red stockings and draws from the easel, another has a gray rat tulle dress: frowns that increase in size and a black long sleeve diver underneath, paints on a bitacora. The one in the pink dress, that garment that begins to cement the icons of the mark of Molly Goddard, draws on a black cardboard with white chalk. I feel the cotton candy in my mouth again. Black tulle dress: the tutu of the 21st century. They only seek their essence in a dreamlike perfection that moves away from the classic. Dressed up in a printed t-shirt? Oh yeah. More tulle, more black, more pink as George smiles.

London, spring-summer 2016

The wet hair and the makeup run. Is it a parade? Yes, and why are they making sandwiches? Because they felt like it. Better: because they are recreating a factory, everyday life that mixes with the cottons in my mouth. Molly Goddard classics on white t-shirts, loose dresses that do not fit or mark, pictures stamped on one of the models that cuts the tomatoes, puckered and collected for another that spreads mayonnaise and the bulging silhouette of girl-princess-woman -rebelde moving for the rest along with the mascara combined with tears and the rouge run for some stolen kiss. No more Angela, spit that sweet from your mouth and say: foreign women that I can not reach.

And sometimes I walk through Independence Park and I see people eating cotton candy and I think of my tutu, Molly, jumping on a pink cloud. I think of putting on some super comfortable black leather pants and an asymmetrical tulle magenta skirt, cut to the right side, long to the left and dance again.

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