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I see a lot of women perform the fan dance like a show girl; throwing the fans around, putting them down, picking them up. When creating my feather fan dance, I wanted to design it like a burlesque performer, rather than showgirl. With the tease and peekaboo sensibilities of classic burlesque.
I take 3 minutes of my 4 min act to play with the viewer, revealing one section of my body at a time. I literally playfully hide behind the fans for ¾ of the act, which means I don’t see the audience for 3 minutes either! To a performer who relies on audience response heavily during her acts, this has mandated I become a better listener, since I can’t see. It also means that the viewer is watching the fans ¾ of the act and therefore the fans transform into the object of beauty.
As they should be. I am a #vegan and animal welfare advocate – I spent excessive energy and money on sourcing post-molt ostrich feathers to hand build my #crueltyfree fans. I would not feel glamorous at all performing with feathers that were ripped from another beings skin, leaving them bloody and in pain. Obviously. These feathers were collected post-molt. No animal was harmed in the process. They are a natural part of the ostrich’s beauty and they themselves are a major part of the elegance and beauty of my act. I try to honor the birds I now have a connection with by sharing the beauty of their post-molt feathers. And I love that the viewer indulges in the feather fan’s beauty while I perform a peekaboo tease for a majority of my act. And for me, if I were waving and throwing them around show girl style, the appreciation, connection and glamour just wouldn’t be achieved.
I also hand make the stunning corset you see from faux pearls. No being was harmed in the making of the corset either, unless you count the massive amount of glue I ended up huffing during construction!
Please enjoy my newest act: a classic peekaboo burlesque feather fan dance performed to Duke Ellington’s “Jeep’s Blues” as recorded in 1957:
Photographer, Marti Matulis, truly captures art photography from live performance. Here are my favorites from his documentation of The Lalas at Harvelle’s Santa Monica, CA 3/27/14. Remember, this stunning photography was captured during LIVE PERFORMANCE where the model does not pose, the lights are not set up, and the location is filled with audience members whom paid to have the best views. This is just amazing:
That was fun.
That was worth it.
I’ll definitely do that again.
On, Dasher. On, Dancer. On, Prancer. On, Vixen. On top of old smokey again.
I can’t complain about lodging. To me, even the little motels are outta sight. This Tour Towards has extended indefinitely and I say So Mote It Be. I stick to dirt roads for dust coverage how very down home of me. My machine is protective and comforting in it’s roar, but myself; I’m not a machine. I had to stop, make a friend, order a drink, have a conversation, indulge relaxation and add another photo to my camera’s roll of a life full of moments I’d otherwise soon forget, but would very much rather not. We are meaningful in photos.
I smile, open the trunk and you see me drop in. Or frown. Or recoil. A stack full of polaroid photos. Just one copy. For me. For me. For me. To collect. One of a kinds. Breaking the mold of all memories.
The music drives me onward. emptyself “None Except You”
Baseball bat demolishing steel and windshield. Just another memory tied up in the trunk, muffled and kicking unless we sing. On, Dancer. On, Vixen. Let freedom sing.
Because humor is a woman’s sexiest trait! Performing my Kiddie Pool Comedy Burlesque with The Lalas on Los Angeles’s famous Club Nokia stage Halloween 2013:
Rearview is a dust screen, kickin up dirt road for 2 miles back I’m goin so fast. Might look like I’m tryin to escape. Evade? Runaway. But that’s not it. Or so I say to myself and twist the volume nob.
Fireball Ministry “I don’t know the one in misery.”
Last I checked the oil was fine but there’s a certain smell now I just don’t know. I’ve got paranoia tied up in the trunk muffled but kickin. This thing goes to 11 so I twist it and I’m not lookin back til I can check that dip stick.
Agitated fingers find a stashed twister and fire up cause here ain’t no one chasin me. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me. And anyway, I’m not evading. I’m not running from anything. I’m goin towards – sure the lyrics to this song got some kind of meaning. Singing and singing and drag racing the dangerous women towards some sort of meaning. Keep singing.
With the windows rolled down, I’m high as hell and I keep on the gas. Ain’t no stoppin now should the dust settle behind me. Definitely heading towards something easier, cause nature knows I got NOTHIN on the West Coast anymore callin to me. I figure I’ll stop at a little country lake first on the way. Where a good ol boy I once knew has a boat we can take at night under an eclipse pregnant sky, kill the motor and become silent. For once, just fucking silence. Just the still water’s reflection and echos of every bird rustle or heavy sleep. I’ve forgotten how revealing silence can be. But right now I’m just glad this 401 got wings.