Words by Eva Devore | Photography by Mia Maraschino
“I feel like this would have been a lot better if, let’s say, minus ten kilograms.”
That’s one of the first things I saw as I scrolled through the alerts on my phone. It was a comment posted on a short video clip I had posted on my Instagram feed. The video was a snippet of choreography for the Diamonds Burlesque routine for Term One, 2020, and it was a piece of choreography I was feeling especially proud of. One of my goals from the previous year was to improve my floorwork, and being able to include a section in an advanced burlesque choreography felt like an amazing achievement! I was really excited to share it with my followers and hopefully encourage some students to sign up for the class.
Unfortunately for this particular Instagram follower, I was simply a little too large for any of that to matter.
While I am usually quick to laugh away an insensitive or negative comment, this one really hit me in a place of vulnerability. In the past few months I had been weighed down with thoughts of self doubt around my body. Was it holding me back in my burlesque career? Would I be a better performer, better dancer, if I was less than I am?
Every time these voices would pop up I would try to firmly stamp them down, yet back they would creep. It had become hard to see myself in post-show pictures, and I would avoid watching any clips of myself performing.
I want to preface this piece by acknowledging the privilege I have with my body. I am white and able-bodied, and I fit into the size ranges that retail stores deem “conventional.” I am privileged that I do not have any outwardly visible medical conditions, and even moreso that my body and gender identity are one and the same. I feel very lucky. However despite that, it is amazing to me that I am still made to feel inferior, time and time again, because of the body that I have.
My relationship with my body has been a toxic one from the start. I still have vivid memories of the first time someone called me “fat,” loaded with all the derision and negativity that the word has come to represent.
In a small, beachside country town, I learned that my pale, freckled skin and soft, chubby belly were wrong. I learned this before I was even ten years old. I remember being told I shouldn’t be allowed on the beach because of how I looked in a swimsuit. I remember a tourist (and an adult one, mind you) telling me I didn’t look like I could be a local here. The popular figures everyone idolised at the time, celebrities like the Olsen twins, Kate Moss and Mischa Barton, promoted a waifish figure that I could never hope to achieve, much less identify with. And so I learned that simply by the way I looked, I was inadequate.
Finding burlesque was the first time that I felt that my body could be celebrated in the form it was in.
I had always wanted to be a performer, but the girls who were in the dance groups in my hometown were the same ones who made me feel inferior, so I never pursued it. Dancing was something I did at home, behind closed doors. But when I joined a burlesque class, suddenly I felt that perhaps this was the thing I had been waiting for. Baring my body felt like a victory, an act of powerful defiance, and a “fuck you” to all those individuals, and societal expectations that had made me feel so worthless before.
Burlesque put forth the idea that all bodies are beautiful, and deserve to be shown, and I drank in this dream like I’d found an oasis in the desert. And yet, having been involved in the burlesque world for almost five years now, I can see that we still have a ways to go to really be the body-positive force we claim to be.
While internally, burlesque is a safe haven for those whose bodies society deems ‘inadequate,’ the outward expectation of the art is still one of unattainable perfection. Take for instance, one of the most well-known figures in burlesque, the illustrious Dita Von Teese. Dita’s brand and empire has been built on her image, a decadent dream of luscious black hair in a perfect vintage coiffure, flawless skin and curvaceous form carved from marble. Dita’s perfection is her gimmick, her je n’ais ce qui, and I will forever admire the incredible legacy she has built.
However I also lament the standard that has been set, the association that burlesque is a flawless figure in feathers and fur.
I see the effect of this in my day to day interactions with burlesque. I see students saying things like “Oh I wish I could look like Dita Von Teese.” I see performers with more conventionally ‘beautiful’ body types being booked for paid performances more often than those who don’t. I hear other artists, and audience members whisper about whether so-and-so has lost/gained weight. I hear burlesque artists discuss their weight and image backstage, lamenting that they’ve put weight on.
Despite seeing these disappointing things, burlesque also continues to grow as a movement for body positivity and change.
I see incredible performers of all shapes, sizes and abilities taking it to the stage and bringing the house down. I see space being held for performers of all sizes, abilities and genders. I see trailblazers smashing stereotypes and fearlessly baring their bodies and demanding to be seen. Fierce icons like Dirty Martini show us that you don’t have to look a certain way to be at the top.
In the 2019 Burlesque Top 50, a yearly ranking of the top most influential burlesque figures in the world as voted by the public, the diversity and representation was incredible to see. Our top five figures in the world was made up of women of colour, diverse body types and performance styles. Self-described “fat babe” Siomai Moore took out the 4th place spot, and put it perfectly in her instagram post on the subject. “If we’re out here saying burlesque is about body positivity, then walk the walk and curate a truly diverse cast.”
When we say that burlesque is for everybody, we must mean that burlesque is for EVERY body. In a world full of toxic diet culture, fat-shaming, ableism and racism, it’s our art and our creative industries that can push forth a cultural change. Burlesque is powerful. It is standing up and saying “my body is valid.”
I will keep doing what I can to lift up those around me and support diversity in burlesque.
I will keep dancing, keep posting photos and videos with all my soft flesh, and rolls and curves on display.