On Audiences

[Steve suggests: I think there is a lot of potential for this mode of address. For you to tell a story in the first person; describe your work and the reasons you made the decisions you did; tell of other works that relate to it; other writing and theory that relates to it. This could be a very rich basis for your writing practice in the coming year. Suggested text: perform or else - this argues that the imperative to perform is dominant in = culture, economics and personal life]

I remember as a kid I used to love putting on my mothers make-up. She owned every color of eye shadow I could imagine yet with a clear tendency to dark grey and greenish shades. I knew she stole them from the store. I’ve seen her doing it several times. Skillfully taking a small box out of the shelf, fumbling with the label cautiously while pretending to examine it’s intactness until the label finally came off. Then letting the little box slide up her sleeve, sometimes three or four after another. She had such an elegant and inconspicuous way of doing it that sometimes it even escaped my attention. I don’t know if she knew that I knew - we never spoke about it. Over time my mother had built up a remarkable collection of the most expensive and premium-quality make up. Enough to keep the both of us entertained for countless afternoons. There was a special spot in her sleeping room where she kept her entire accumulation. It was a laundry basket next to the window in the corner of the room. It was filled all the way up to the top. There was neither room nor need for order, everything was piled up on top of each other. Sometimes we would just stick our hands in there and apply anything to each others faces that we grabbed by chance. Her favorite pieces were brownish lipsticks and mine were blue eyeshadows.

I especially like the eyeshadows because of their materiality. Some of them had a metallic shine while others were completely matte. I loved the fine colorful powder that kicked off a cloud of dust each time I would scratch my brush over its surface. There were countless brushes. Some where long, some were thin, some were short, some had a head out of stiff and scratchy foam while others were equipped with soft and soothing bristles made out of the softest goat hair. Most of the time of my childhood I would sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the mirror that was attached at the inside door of my mother’s wardrobe in her sleeping room next to the basket. Around me on the floor all of her make up arranged according to colors. Starting off with orange, red and pink going to purple, blue and finally green and grey which covered the widest range of shades. Maybe she favored the greens because it contrasted her bright red colored hair. She must have liked it. I would sit there spending hours putting on every single shade with corresponding lipsticks and powders. Wiping it off, reapplying a different combination.The possibilities were endless and I always wondered how my mother managed to make a choice in the morning.

Another important aspect of this fantastic occupation which I indulged in for what seemed only a afternoon but proved to be an eternity was the incorporation of gowns. My mothers closet was packed with them. They were all hand-sewed by her own hands and could have equipped an entire theatre company. My favorite ones by far were the flamboyant sequined cocktail dresses of striking colors with their enormous shoulder pads. The dresses were mostly made out of shiny polyester - queen of all materials. The shoulder pads had a life of their own and stood out like crazy. They were actually less of shoulder pads but more of a huge cluster of material filled with some fluffy matter that was sitting on each shoulder like a pregnant panda bear. You could hide your entire head behind them just by turning sideways. That way at a party the person you don’t want to talk to, would only see an autonomous, self-confident dress with a supportive pair of legs standing in the middle of the room all on its own. I doubt my mother ever made use of this very handy act of impoliteness. Those cocktail dresses went very well with some make up that promoted fierce competition turning the carrier into a battleground. The skill of ones own was to carefully balance everything out so well that your vis-à-vis would be forced to their knees from dizziness caused by rapid zigzag gazing. No other arguments needed here.

Other dresses were slightly reserved and created a more subtle warrior. Although not less flashy in colors their simple shapes directed ones attention to the fineness of the fabric which slightly misfits the bold rhythm of repeating patterns, creating a fickle colored something - leaving the opponent mesmerized, almost unconscious and definitely in poor health.

Of course there were also nice long evening dresses, fancy ball dresses, flashy circus dresses, cool party dresses & trashy drag-queen dresses (even though I think she might not agree here). I was captivated

My mother made all of those dresses by hand. I don’t know how long it took her make one and it doesn’t really matter because once she finished one dress she started the next. She was obsessed with making them. When I think back and recall her image I see her next to the window in her sleeping room sitting on a wooden chair in front of a small square wooden table that holds nothing more than a sewing machine. With a glas of wine on the floor and a cigarette in the corner of her mouth she leans over the little machine with both hands guiding the fabric trough. Every once in a while she would swear when the ashes once again landed on the fabric or the glass spilled over. The chattering sound of the machine and the smell of the smoke feel like home to me. I loved watching her while I painted my face in all different kind of colors just to take them off again. Whenever she completed a dress she would proudly announce that now, finally, was time to „do the boogy“. I got all excited. In fact I knew whenever she was close to getting a piece done and I did all I could to be ready and have the most perfect make up ready on my face for her. I made sure the eyeshadow was heavy and going all the way up even beyond my eyebrows and the lipstick would not stop at the border of my lips but go way beyond that, sometimes even touching my nostrils. This was my way to show my excitement and my full approval of my mothers achievements. She would look at me with pride, stroke my hair and get a chair for me. Now was the time - the highlight of the week! Boogy time!

I’m so excited that my heart races. My mother closes the thick dark green velvet window curtain and dims the ceiling lights to a minimum. I adjust the two floor lamps in the corners of the room, so they form two spotlights against the window curtain. I sit on the opposite chair and can barely keep still. My mother leaves the room. I wait with tense anticipation. After a while she shouts „NOW“ from the kitchen and then „FANTASY“. I look for the requested track in the iTunes library and turn the music on. „Fantasy“ from Earth, Wind & Fire starts to play. My mother comes in, dancing and wearing her newest creation. She turns around in circles and moves passionately to the disco beats from the little boom box while I applaud and cheer and whistle. The more she throws herself back and forth, up and down to demonstrate the magic of her new piece the more enthusiastic I become. I climb onto the chair and shout YES, GREAT and MORE and we continue to outperform each other. The fancier the better. She throws her arms up high, I throw my arms up high. She jumps up and down, I jump up and down. She sings along and I scream LOUDER. Sweat is running down my forehead and stings in my eyes. It doesn’t matter - it’s boogie time! We keep on inciting each other until the song ends. Sometimes the neighbors have rung the bell by then but we don’t respond to them anymore. Those are our moments and we won’t let anyone interfere. On boogie nights I may even go to bed without brushing my teeth. It’s the best of all times ever!