By looking good one can feel good

By looking good
one can feel good
Ballroom Culture — Fabrikzeitung Nr. 292, Juni 2013
from rags
to
bitches
Seit gut einem Jahr kommt die Popwelt aus dem Staunen kaum
noch heraus: Rap von Homosexuellen, ja gibt’s denn das? Die
amerikanischen Newcomer Mykki Blanco, Zebra Katz und Le1f
sind offen schwul, und manch einer wertet ihren Erfolg als Zeichen dafür, dass die als notorisch heterosexistisch bekannte RapSzene allmählich einen lockereren Umgang mit anderen Formen
des Begehrens entwickelt. In vielen Kommentaren wurde betont, dass die drei Rapper allerdings stilistisch viel zu weit auseinander lägen, um sie gemeinsam in eine praktische «Queer
Rap» beschriftete Schublade stecken zu können – und es stimmt
schon: Mykki Blancos Rapstil ist wesentlich versatiler und eloquenter als der von Zebra Katz; Blanco wechselt seinen Duktus
so lässig wie seine Outfits, mal klingt er wie ein sackschaukelnder Macho, mal wie ein Grunge-Mädchen. Katz hingegen ist ein
Minimalist am Mikrofon, er durchzieht seine Tracks mit immer
demselben düsteren, einlullenden Dröhnen – was sein Schaffen
etwas in Richtung Konzeptkunst rückt. Le1f ist von allen dreien
– wie in seinem Video ‹Wut› zu sehen ist – mit Abstand der beste
und eleganteste Tänzer. Man sollte die Unterschiede aber auch
nicht überbetonen, denn die drei Rapper eint künstlerisch ein
wichtiges Detail: Alle drei bedienen sich – mal mehr, mal weniger offensichtlich – bei Techniken, die in der afro- und latinoamerikanischen Ballroom Community entwickelt wurden und
dort bis heute praktiziert werden. Die Techniken heissen «Voguing», «Reading» und «Fierceness» und sind momentan keineswegs nur bei Rappern beliebt.
Voguing ist immer dort zu sehen, wo Modelposen aus der Welt
der Modemagazine und der Haute Couture zu Disco-Breaks und
House-Beats getanzt werden; zusätzlich können sie mit Figuren
fernöstlicher Martial Arts und halsbrecherischer Akrobatik kombiniert werden. Ohne diesen Tanzstil, den man als queere Selbstinszenierungs- und Battle-Technik beschreiben könnte und der
in den mittleren 1970er Jahren in New York – parallel zum Hiphop Stil B-Boying – entwickelt wurde, hätten viele heutige Popund R&B-Videoclips ein enormes Glamourdefizit. Die Spezialität des Voguings ist es nämlich, durch nichts als Mimik, durch
stark überstilisierte Laufsteg-Bewegungen und rhythmisch dramatisierende Momente des Innehaltens («Freeze») einen Effekt
von opulenter Eleganz und modischer Überlegenheit zu erzielen.
Sängerinnen wie Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, Kelly Rowland und Britney Spears haben in den letzten Jahren Voguing-Sequenzen in
ihre Videos eingebaut: Abgewinkelte und seitlich um den Kopf
herumgeführte Arme, horizontal und vertikal das Gesicht rahmende Hände, kokett abgespreizte Finger. Meistens stellen diese
Voguing-Szenen einen Rekurs auf Madonnas Video ‹Vogue› aus
dem Jahr 1990 dar – jenes Musikvideo, das Voguing erstmals einer sehr breiten, globalen Pop-Öffentlichkeit vorstellte. Was
damals in Madonnas Video gezeigt wurde, war aber eher eine
Schwundstufe des Voguings. Zwar tanzten in dem Video auch
José und Luis Xtravaganza mit, zwei schwule Latinos aus dem
New Yorker House of Xtravaganza – «echte» Voguer aus dem
«Untergrund» also, doch zeigte der von David Fincher gedrehte
Schwarzweiss-Clip keineswegs authentisches Vogueing, sondern
eine für das MTV-Publikum adaptierte Variante. Die New Yorker
Choreographin Karol Armitage war von Madonna beauftragt
worden, einige typische Voguing-Figuren zum Zweck der weltweiten Nachtanzbarkeit zu simplifizieren.
Besagte Figuren gehören heute fest ins Bewegungsrepertoire
weiblicher Popstars. Allerdings sind in deren Videos ansonsten
keine männlichen Tänzer aus der mittlerweile über die gesamten
USA verzweigten Ballroom-Szene zu sehen – sondern professionelle (meist weisse) Tänzerinnen. Diese haben vom Hustle bis
zum Booty Dance alle möglichen urbanen Tanzstile drauf und erwecken den Eindruck, als hätten sie die Voguing-Posen erst eine
halbe Stunde vor Beginn des Videodrehs beigebracht bekommen. Ein ästhetischer Mehrwert wird dabei meist trotzdem produziert. Doch erst auf YouTube, in tausenden, bei sogenannten
«Balls» aufgenommenen Amateurvideos, zeigt sich, wie heute
echtes Voguing aussieht. Der grösste Unterschied zwischen den
privaten Battle-Dokumentationen und dem für die Pop-Verwertung choreographierten Voguing liegt dabei nicht im Geschlecht
der TänzerInnen oder in der Diskrepanz zwischen den aufwändig inszenierten Musikvideokulissen und der Neonröhren-Trost-
losigkeit der provisorischen Laufstege in Community Centers
von Brooklyn oder Atlanta. Am meisten ins Auge sticht die mangelnde Fierceness der Popstars und ihrer Profi-Tänzerinnen.
Der Begriff Fierceness schillert im Deutschen ambivalent zwischen Schärfe, Bissigkeit und Bösartigkeit, er lässt sich im Grunde kaum korrekt übersetzen. Fierceness ist eine kommunikative
Fertigkeit, in der sich die Schwulen und Transsexuellen der Ballroom Community schon übten, lange bevor die aus dem Dokumentarfilm ‹Paris Is Burning› (1990) bekannte Paris Dupree, biologisch männliche «Mother» des New Yorker House of Dupree,
bei einem Ball in den 1970ern erstmals auf die Idee kam, ihre
KontrahentInnen auf eine neue Weise auszustechen: Nämlich indem sie eine Ausgabe der amerikanischen ‹Vogue› in die Hand
nahm und beim Blättern die darin abgebildeten Modelposen
tanzte. Vor Paris Dupree war Fierceness in der Ballroom Community vor allem mit den Mitteln des Reading und des «Throwing
Shade» praktiziert worden. Beim Reading, gewissermassen der
hohen Kunst der Beleidigung, bietet jeder kleinste – tatsächlich
vorhandene oder frei erfundene – Makel eines Kontrahenten oder
einer Kontrahentin Anlass für ausgedehnte, ätzende Schimpftiraden. Ein gutes Beispiel findet sich auf Youtube unter: «The
Queen, 1967 – Crystal LaBeija rant». Es ist eine Szene aus Frank
Simons Dokumentarfilm ‹The Queen› aus dem Jahr 1967, darin
sieht man Crystal LaBeija, die Gründerin des legendären House
of LaBeija, wie sie als schlechte Verliererin eines New Yorker
Drag-Schönheitswettbewerbs die Gewinnerin verbal auseinandernimmt. In seinem letztjährigen Hit ‹Ima Read› bezieht sich
Zebra Katz auf genau diese verbale (Kampf-)Technik, wenn er
mantrahaft und drohend die Zeile «Ima read that bitch» wiederholt – übersetzt etwa: «Ich werd’s dieser Schlampe zeigen» oder
«Ich werd’ der Schlampe die Leviten lesen.» Zebra Katz hat ‹Ima
Read› mehrfach als Hommage an die Ballroom Community und
ihre Codes bezeichnet.
Die non-verbale Variante des Reading heisst Throwing Shade,
sie erlaubt es, GegnerInnen mit nichts als Gestik, verächtlichen
Gesichtsausdrücken, rollenden Augen oder teils kaum hörbaren Geräuschen – wie etwa indigniertem Hüsteln – zu degradieren. Mithilfe solcher Techniken werden bis heute in der Ballroom Community ritualisierte Hierarchie-Kämpfe ausgetragen
und dabei die Strukturen innerhalb der Houses – die man als
queere Ersatzfamilien mit Selbsthilfe- und Performance-Anspruch beschreiben könnte – herausgebildet. Auch die Rangordnung zwischen den unterschiedlichen, um Ruhm und Gefürchtetheit konkurrierenden Houses kommt so zustande. Bei der getanzten Variante des Throwing Shade wiederum, dem Voguing,
geht es nicht in erster Linie um das Magazin gleichen Namens,
sondern vielmehr um den Mythos der Mode, für den ‹Vogue› neben anderen Modemagazinen steht. So gab Willi Ninja, einer der
innovativsten, seit den späten 1970er Jahren aktiven BallroomTänzer, in einem Interview mit dem Zoo Magazine im Jahr 2005
zu Protokoll: «Es hätte wohl ziemlich dumm geklungen, wenn
wir gesagt hätten: Lass uns den ‹Harper’s Bazaar› tanzen!, oder:
Mach den ‹Esquire!›» Kurz: Die Bezeichnung «Vogueing» klang
einfach am glamourösesten.
Mode ist seit jeher der Schauplatz, auf dem mit den Waffen der
Eleganz, des Geschmacks und der Schönheit um Überlegenheit
gefochten wird. Wer im modischen Kampf unterlegen ist, dem
bleibt das Gefühl der Scham – ein Affekt, den die Mitglieder sexuell und ethnisch marginalisierter Gemeinschaften nur zu gut
kennen. Der amerikanische Soziologe und Literaturwissenschaftler Michael Warner hat darauf hingewiesen, dass Gefühle
der Scham in queeren Zusammenhängen aber nicht zwangsweise ausschliessend wirken, sondern dass sie im Gegenteil sogar
ein Potenzial zur Festigung ebendieser Gemeinschaften bergen.
«Die Beziehung zu anderen [in queeren Kontexten] beginnt
mit der Anerkennung dessen, was an einem am abjektesten, am
wenigsten achtbar ist. Das Gefühl der Scham ist hier die Grundlage», schreibt Warner in seinem Aufsatz ‹The Trouble with
Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life›. «Queere
Leute können beleidigend und gemein zueinander sein. Aber
weil klar ist, dass Verworfenheit ihre gemeinsame Grundlage
ist, wissen sie, dass sich mit und durch solche Umgangsformen
hindurch eine tiefe und ungewöhnliche Grosszügigkeit mittei-
len kann. Niemand ist von dieser ausgeschlossen, und zwar nicht
deshalb, weil sie auf eine solche stolz wären, sondern weil sie auf
gar nichts stolz sind. Die Regel lautet: Überwinde dich selbst.
Setz dir eine Perücke auf, bevor du urteilst.» Demzufolge stellen
Vogueing-Battles, in denen sich die KontrahentInnen vor einer
Jury tanzend und gestikulierend niedermachen, während der
moderierende Ballroom-MC sie mit Worten wie «bitch», «cunt»
oder «pussy» (die oft als Komplimente gemeint sind) anfeuert, einen sehr kreativen und produktiven Umgang mit Gefühlen der
Scham und der Minderprivilegiertheit dar. Diese werden in einem halb-öffentlichen, sozial abgesicherten Rahmen in Gesten
des Stolzes transformiert – für ein Publikum gemeinsam stolz
Beschämter. Auch der Umgang mit Mode in der Ballroom Community ist kreativ und vor allem transformativ: Statt nur Wert
auf Markenklamotten zu legen, hat sich in der Szene eine eigene
Interpretation des Do It Yourself-Prinzips durchgesetzt. BattleOutfits werden häufig aus Lametta, Stretch-Stoffen, aussortierten Altkleidern («rags») und Fake-Logos selbst kunstvoll zusammengeschneidert und um Teile gängiger Hiphop-Streetwear ergänzt. Ein Wettbewerbsnachteil entsteht nicht durch Billigkeit
oder fehlende «Echtheit» eines Outfits, sondern vielmehr durch
mangelnde Eleganz und Fierceness der Darbietung. Anders gesagt: Das kompetitive soziale Feld der Ballroom-Kultur findet
seine ästhetische Entsprechung nicht in käuflichen High-Fashion-Produkten, sondern im Nachspielen jenes harten Wettbewerbs, den diese Produkte repräsentieren.
Mykki Blanco ist derjenige Rapper, der momentan am raffiniertesten das Spiel mit Geschlechterzuweisungen beherrscht. Während eines Konzerts kann er vom taffen B-Boy zum atemberaubend schönen Mannequin werden, ein bisschen Make-up, Schuhe und Kleider genügen. Manchmal tritt er nur als Frau auf,
manchmal nur als Mann. Blanco ist aber keiner, der sich den Penis abquetscht, um die Illusion «perfekt» zu machen, und er ist
auch keiner, der sich am Ende eines Songs dramatisch die Perücke vom Kopf reisst; es geht ihm nie um die abgenutze Geste einer
«Enttarnung». Es ist eher so, dass er in seiner Performance genau
das Verständnis von Geschlecht und seiner grundsätzlichen Konstruiertheit an den Tag legt, das in der Ballroom Community
seit langem geübt wird (und über das Judith Butler 1990 in ihrem Gender-Theory-Klassiker ‹Das Unbehagen der Geschlechter› schrieb). Es gibt bei Voguing-Battles eine eigene Kategorie,
Butch Queen up in Drag, in der es genau darum geht, was Mykki
Blanco zur Performance macht: Hart aussehende, schwule Männer, die als Frauen auftreten, ohne völlig in der Rolle der Frau
aufgehen zu wollen; im Gegenteil, es ist sogar erwünscht, dass in
der dargestellten Frau immer auch der – natürlich ebenso dargestellte – Mann noch zu erkennen ist. Ein fliessenderes Verständnis von geschlechtlicher Identität ist kaum denkbar.
Die Logik des Sich-gegenseitig-Überbietens und Einander-Ausstechens hat in den vergangenen zwanzig Jahren dazu geführt,
dass das Vogueing in der Ballroom-Szene völlig andere Formen
angenommen hat, als man sie zur Hochphase des MTV-Hypes
um den Tanz Anfang der 1990er Jahre vermittelt bekam. Der
Wettstreit in den Ballrooms hat immer waghalsigere, körperlich
forderndere Moves hervorgebracht, der Tanz ist fliessender, die
Musik, zu der er ausgeführt wird, ist härter geworden. Die opulent mit Streichern beladenen Disco-Hymnen von einst sind einer forscheren, fierceren Spielart des House gewichen. Dominierende Tanzfiguren sind heute der sogenannte «Duck Walk»,
bei dem man in die Hocke geht und dann auf Zehenspitzen vorwärts hüpft (besonders knieschädlich, wenn man dabei Pumps
trägt), sowie der «Dip», manchmal auch «Suicide Dip» genannt:
Eine dramatische Sturzfigur, bei der man sich aus dem Stand
rückwärts auf den flachen Rücken fallen lässt (mit ungewissen
Folgen für Wirbelsäule und Nacken). Anklänge an dieses neuere Voguing, das «Vogue Fem» oder auch «Dramatics» genannt
wird, zeigt Le1f in seinem ‹Wut›-Video, mit dem er sich im letzten Jahr auf Anhieb auf die Screens der popinteressierten Öffentlichkeit schaltete: Während er die Zeile «They see me in a
new pose» rappt, lässt er vor schwarzem Hintergrund die Arme
und Hände locker gegeneinander rotieren – hoch über den Kopf,
dann raffiniert die Schultern streifend, hinunter zum Becken.
Le1f zeigt hier nur eine Andeutung seines Voguing-Repertoires,
By looking powerful
one can feel powerful
categories
of vogue
Butch Queen / vogue femme
Give a stunning performance using the five elements
of vogue: hands, catwalk, duckwalk, floor performance,
and spins and dips
BQ Realness
Judged on participants ability to blend in with
heterosexuals by giving Thug, Pretty Boy, School
Boy, or Executive
FQ Realness
Judged on participants ability to blend in
with female heterosexuals
Dipology
Like Vogue Femme but involves
spins into dips only
European Runway
The person walking walks like a female,
not like the male models of America
American Runway
is often walked by TransMen and Butches/Studs, but
the models walk as a masculine models from America,
not feminine models like in European Runway
aber es ist auch kein harter «Dip» auf den Boden nötig, um die
Botschaft deutlich zu machen: Man sieht hier einen, der es definitiv drauf hat, und er macht sich erst warm.
Häufig ist die Geschichte des Voguings in den vergangenen zwei
Jahrzehnten als Ausnutzung sexuell und ethnisch marginalisierter Kreativer durch den herrschenden Mainstream und dessen
Stars erzählt worden – als ein Vorgang, bei dem die Ästhetik kopiert, der soziale Kontext aber ausgeblendet wird (wie es im Falle
der Videos von Madonna bis Beyoncé tatsächlich geschah). Dennoch erscheint eine einseitige Gut-Böse-Gegenüberstellung heute fragwürdiger denn je. Schon die Aneignung handelsüblicher,
also straighter Mainstream-Mode-Images durch die Akteure der
Ballroom-Kultur in den 1970ern stellte eine Verwendung entge-
Jennifer Livingston’s misleading 1990 documentary ‹Paris Is
Burning› brought the underground world of black queer «houses»
and «balls» to the attention of the mainstream public, yet the film
left much to be desired in terms of understanding how these social networks have transformed the culture of black gay New
York in innumerable ways.
BQ / FQ / FF Runway
Judged on participants ability to catwalk, usually
with a requested outfit or color
FQ / BQ in Drag
Give a performance (usually lip-synched)
of a famous female figure
Almost 20 years after Livingston began shooting footage for Paris, and perhaps as a result of the stereotypes the film presented,
the house ball community continues to be grossly misunderstood
and stigmatized by the masses of black people, both gay and
straight. In a moment when being unapologetically black and
gay has dangerous consequences, house ball culture continues to
provide a viable space for a new generation of «ball kids», which
has created a subculture that has redefined notions of family, masculinity, friendship and, of course, what it means to be a diva.
Bizarre
Judged on participants creativity to design a costume
based on what the category asks for
Hands Performance
Give a voguing performance using hands only
Labels
Judged on how many of the year labels
a participant is wearing and
their authenticity
BQ / FQ / FF Face
Showing off your clean, perfect, smooth face
Virgin Vogue Femme
The same as vogue femme but for participants who
have been voguing for less than one year, as
per Legendary Icon Selvin Khanh
Virgin Runway
The same as Runway but for participants who have
been walking Runway for less than one year,
as per Legendary Icon Selvin Khanh
BQ / FQ / FF Sex Siren
Giving sex appeal mostly in sexy underwear such
as thongs, briefs, or bikinis
Best Dressed
self-explanatory
Commentator vs. Commentator
Allows aspiring and current MCs to showcase
their chanting ability to the music and ability
to hype the crowd
Legendary/Iconic Categories
Only the legends and icons of the ballroom scene
can participate in categories such
as Face, Runway, Realness, Performance
stars werden gewissermassen heimgeholt. Sowohl der scharf skelettierte R&B-Track ‹Diva›, den Beyoncé unter ihrem Glamourzicken-Alias Sasha Fierce aufgenommen hat, als auch Lady Gagas Technomonster ‹Bad Romance› (in dem mehrfach die Voguing-taugliche Zeile «Walk walk, fashion baby, work it, move
that bitch crazy» wiederholt wird) stellen Popstücke dar, die
ohne die im Voguing verfeinerten Techniken der offensiven
Selbst-Glamourisierung gar nicht denkbar gewesen wären. Sie
sind Welthits gewordene Beweise für den Einfluss der Ballroom-Kultur auf den Mainstream. Ihre Akteure verleiben sich
also wie selbstverständlich das wieder ein, was sie geholfen haben zu erschaffen.
Text Jan Kedves
no
place
like home
Butch Queen up in Pumps
Basically the same as Labels or Runway but
you must wear heels usually six inches
or more
Realness With a Twist
Judged on participants ability to blend in with
heterosexuals, then come back and vogue fem
gen der Gebrauchsanweisung dar. Und heute findet der Transfer
in beide Richtungen statt. Nicht nur bei Mykki Blanco, Zebra
Katz oder Le1f. Auch in der elektronischen Tanzmusik ist der
Transfer zu spüren: Der New Yorker MikeQ oder der Washingtoner Vjuan Allure sind Beispiele für DJs, die bislang fast ausschliesslich innerhalb der Ballroom-Szene bekannt waren und
dort Voguing-Battles beschallten, die aufgrund ihrer frischen
und harten House-Tracks aber zunehmend auch in «reguläre»
Clubs gebucht werden. MikeQ zum Beispiel zitiert und verfremdet in einem Podcast, den er 2011 für das tonangebende amerikanische Magazin für elektronische Clubmusik XLR8R gemischt
hat, von Beyoncés ‹Diva› bis Lady Gagas ‹Bad Romance› verschiedene jüngere Charthits. Es geht hier keineswegs darum,
sich mit fremden Federn zu schmücken, im Gegenteil: Die Pop-
In the history and legacy of the Harlem drag balls numerous historians and cultural commentators have traced the origins of
today’s house ball scene to the notorious culture of Harlem drag
balls in 1920s and 1930s New York. Between roughly 1919 and
1935, an artistic movement that would come to be known as the
«Harlem Renaissance» transformed the culture of uptown Manhattan not only as a result of its establishing new trends in black
literature, music and politics but also for its scandalous night life
and party culture. The Harlem drag balls – usually held at venues
such as the Rockland Palace on 155th street or later the Elks
Lodge on 139th – were initially organized by white gay men but
featured multiracial audiences and participants. The annual pageants became a sort of who’s who of Harlem’s black literary elite: Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, Countee Cullen and
Richard Bruce Nugent were all frequent attendees. Moreover,
white photographers and socialites, such as the infamous Carl
Van Vechten (author of the scandalous 1926 novel ‹Nigger Heaven›), were also in attendance.
The mixed racial dynamics of these early drag balls reflected the
interracial nature of the Harlem Renaissance in general: AfricanAmerican artists looked to wealthy white investors for patronage,
while white spectators flocked to «hip» Harlem spaces as sources
of trend-setting and exotic «negro» spectacle. The drag balls thus
became a space where newly migrated African-Americans from
the south and «liberal» Northern whites could imagine themselves as mavericks, as radicals pushing the norms of a then highly
racially segregated US culture. The lavish, carnivalesque drag
balls became spaces where racial taboos were broken through sexual and gender nonconformity. The events soon evolved from
grand costume parties to outright gay beauty pageants with participants competing in a variety of categories, many of which still
bear resemblance to the categories of today’s house ball scene
(such as «Face»). However, not surprisingly, the early drag balls
were plagued by an imbalance of racial power. Black performers,
though allowed to participate in and attend the events, were rarely winners at the balls and often felt restricted in their ability to
fully participate in the scene. Soon the black queens looked for
opportunities to create a sociocultural world that was truly all
their own. An exclusively black drag ball circuit in New York
City began to form around the 1960s; almost three decades after
the first «girls» started to compete at the earlier drag events. Ho-
wever the cultural and political landscape of Harlem, specifically
the neighborhoods’ earlier carefree «acceptance» of drag culture,
had changed drastically. Due to the growing popularity of 1960s
black nationalist rhetoric (with its rigid restrictions on how
«real» black men should express themselves), the balls became a
more dangerous pastime pleasure. The balls began to be held as
early as 3, 4 or 5 a.m. – a tradition that continues to this day – in
order to make it safer for participants to travel the streets of Harlem safely with high heels and feathers when «trade» had gone to
sleep. The early morning start times also made renting out halls
cheaper, and ensured that «the working girls» (i.e. transsexuals
who made their money as late-night sex workers) would also be
able to make the function. As the drag ball circuit continued to
grow even in spite of a growing hostility towards queer black cultural practices in New York City, the time had come to create specific infrastructures that could help organize the balls as well as
mobilize the friendships and familial alliances that were being
formed between and among participants. The world of Harlem
drag balls was about to transform itself once again.
There has been a tendency among academics – especially in the
work of gay historians such as George Chauncey and Eric Garber
– to conflate the history of the drag balls with the history of the
gay houses. While the «balls» can be traced back to the elaborate
drag pageants of 1930s Harlem, it is important to keep in mind
that the «houses» themselves were a new phenomenon that
emerged in the specific socioeconomic and political contexts of
1970s and 1980s post-industrial New York. These contexts included a spiraling decline of the city’s welfare and social services
net, early gentrification of urban neighborhoods through private
redevelopment, decreases in funding for group homes and other
social services targeting homeless youth, a sharp rise in unemployment rates among black and Latino men, and a virtual absence of funding during the Reagan era for persons newly displaced and/or homeless as result of HIV/AIDS. All of these conditions forced blacks and gays (and especially black gays) onto
the streets in unprecedented numbers.
Houses became alternative kinship networks that selected a «mother» and «father» as their leaders («parents» could be of any gender) and «children» as their general membership body. The
«houses» were a literal re-creation of «homes», in the sense that
these groups became real-life families for individuals that might
have been exiled from their birth homes. However, contrary to
popular belief, many early «house» kids were still deeply connected to their biological families but still sought the unique protection, care and love the street houses provided. Between 1970 and
1980 at least eight major houses formed in Harlem: The House of
Labeija (an African-American vernacular redeployment of the
Spanish word for «beauty»), the House of Corey, the House of
Wong, the House of Dupree, the House of Christian, the House
of Princess and the House of Pendavis.
Just as hiphop – with its emphasis on street crews and other
forms of black male fraternal bonding – emerged in roughly the
same era as an artistic response to some of the political and economic conditions plaguing black men in New York, the houses
became underground social networks by and for urban black gay
people. By 1980 three houses emerged straight out of Brooklyn:
The House of Omni, the House of Ebony and the House of Chanel. These houses were composed of mostly men, many of whom
preferred masculine aesthetics over drag. The creation of houses
transformed the drag circuit forever as newer populations, some
of which would have never been attracted to drag balls, entered
into the community. A rich taxonomy of gender personas and
identities flooded in: Thugged-out hustlers who were «new» to
gay culture, butch lesbians with erotic attachments to gay men,
bootleg black designers and fashionistas eager to put their garments «to test» in a new, urban scene.
The term «drag» now meant something much richer than only
men who cross-dressed as women. Drag was now a metaphor for
everyday life – everyone was in some way or another performing
a specific identity, regardless of whether or not cross-dressing
was involved. In attempt to make sense of this growing array of
gender performance, ball kids adopted a complicated language
system that accounted for the different types of identities they
noticed in the community: «Butch Queens» was a term used to
describe any biologically born male that presented himself of as
male, «Butch Queens Up in Drag» on the other hand came to signify gay men who dressed in drag specifically for the balls, but
still lived his everyday life as a man. «Femme Queens» were preoperative male to female transsexuals, often known for their alluring beauty and uncanny «realness». «Butches» was a term used
to describe either aggressive lesbian women or female-to-male
transsexuals. The term «woman» was only reserved for either heterosexual, biologically born women or feminine lesbians that
did not identify with the «butch» title. Finally «trade» was meant
to describe men whose sexuality might have been in question
even if their masculinity was not. This language system for describing gender in the house ball scene exists to this day.
By the end of the 1980s, the balls were no longer the single most
important element of the culture, as the houses provided a new
life outside of the balls. The drag ball scene had now become the
«house ball scene», with hundreds of individuals belonging to
«houses» even if they did not participate in the drag events. By
the mid-90s, long after ‹Paris Is Burning› had come and gone,
house ball culture continued to evolve, while still remaining true
to its history. As a form of cultural expression by and for working-class African-American and Latina/o queer people from urban inner cities. Though the scene started in New York City, by
1996 there were sizable house ball communities in the roughest
sections of Washington DC, Philadelphia, Detroit, Chicago, Miami, and Los Angeles as well as in parts of North Carolina and
South Carolina. In each of the cities, balls kids adopted and incorporated other, more local forms to make the culture regionally
specific and relevant. This was the case with Atlanta’s house ball
scene, which borrowed from local black styles like «J-Setting»,
and Los Angeles, which even incorporated «krumpin’» into the
culture. Across all the regions one thing was clear, though: Whereas house music and dance culture served as the soundtrack and
political landscape of the 80s scene, by the mid-90s the influence
of hiphop on house ball culture was transformative. Hiphop was
much more than a musical style – it was a movement. As a renaissance of sorts (albeit highly manufactured), hiphop influenced
and popularized certain notions of black masculinity and gender relations that found their way into the house ball scene.
Categories at the balls such as «Thug Realness», «Urban Streetwear», «Bangee Realness» and «Foot and Eyewear» were all indebted to hiphop culture’s emphasis on bling bling aesthetics,
aggressive black masculinities, in your face black style, baby
mama drama and other racialized forms of expression. Many
«voguers» in the community started looking for gigs as choreographers for hiphop artists, as was the case with legends such
as Andre Mizrahi of Atlanta and Pony Blahnik of New York
City. «Voguing» transformed from the Willi Ninja-esque «pose»
heavy style (mis)appropriated by Madonna, to more a fluid,
acrobatic dance which now looked like a sort of new black gay
break dance. Moreover, because of the scene’s deeply underground nature, and also because of the creation of categories
like «best dressed man», «masculine face» and «realness», the
house ball community provided a new space for discrete working-class men of color (men on «the D.L.») to feel comfortable participating in an openly SGL culture without necessarily
outright identifying as gay. The incorporation of hiphop into
the scene broadened the full spectrum of gender performances
that ball society became home to.
Today’s house ball scene features over 100 active «houses» in
more than 13 cities across the country. In New York City alone
there are at least 30 houses with memberships of a dozen or
more: Aphrodite, Allure, Milan, Blahnik, Balenciaga, Mizrahi,
Miyake-Mugler, Chanel, Infiniti, Revlon, Evisu, Prodigy, Latex,
Xtravaganza, Ninja, Prada, St. Clair, Jourdan, Khan, La Perla,
Labeija, Escada, Pendavis, Cavalli, Karan, Ebony, Omni, Tsnumani, Angel and Icon. While every individual ball can often
have dozens, sometimes even hundreds of specific criteria, all of
the categories are still organized around six major concepts:
realness, face, sex and body, runway, performance and fashion.
Many outsiders misinterpret the house ball scene's fascination
with things like labels and fashion as a simplistic envying of
white consumer culture. However, in actuality, a closer look at
the sociocultural context of the balls shows that this is really not
the case. The categories themselves are not nearly as important
as the competition, kinship and relationships that are formed by
and through the preparation for the events and the effects of gaining «status» within the community. Also, house ball culture is
rooted in a rich tradition of African-American cultural practices
that privilege inversion, code switching and signifyin’. Thus, unlike hiphop culture, the emphasis on bling bling and acting like
a «white woman» is actually more of an ironic mockery and critique of these values more so than a straight-forward embracing.
In a moment when the culture of black gay life in New York has
been reduced to an endless parade of «hot boy» parties, «sup niggah» salutations and lukewarm political «activism», the creation
of spaces where new modes of black masculinity, kinship and
love can thrive is particularly inventive. House ball culture, with
its rich and complicated history as an alternative site of black
«community», moves us forward to time and place where black
queer people can imagine new ways of making home – and identity itself – from scratch.
Text by Frank Leon Roberts
Originally published in Wire Tap Magazine
www.wiretapmag.org/arts/43120/
A runway
lined
with condoms
Chatter saturates the room and a dimly lit cafeteria is filling up
with black and brown folks somewhere on the spectrum of gender queer, fashion spectacles and avant-garde performance artists. It’s quite a site to see: bold drag queens and gloriously clad
performers with feather boas and six-inch platforms enter the
room synchronized with the Dj’s booming house beats. They are
adorned with elaborate ensembles, dramatic eye makeup and incredible wigs and hand made head pieces strutting down a low
budget «runway» marked on the floor with electrical tape. No it’s
not Halloween nor is it a costume party; it’s a glimpse into one of
the most influential subcultures in the New York City’s LGBTQ
community – the ballroom scene, which has moved into interesting territories in the past decade engaging marginalized youth
through a health centered platform.
Beauty begets
control
Ball culture was arguably born out of Harlem in the 60s and still
thrives in many capacities today as a global phenomenon. In
New York, it continues to serve the multi-pronged purpose of
being an inclusive creative outlet for some of the city’s most marginalized – and simultaneously – a fierce battleground for competing ball goers: voguing, cat walking and dancing towards
their chance in the spotlight – a place for social recognition.
Ballroom in it’s heyday, emerged from the palpable marginalization of queer blacks and Latinos who were relegated to creating
a subversive, yet reactionary counter-culture response to the
white, affluent and heterosexual mainstream that they were systematically excluded from. In the mix are folks from the entire
gender and sexuality spectrum: intersexed, transgendered, drag
kings and queens, gay, bi, butch, what have you – whatever self
identifiers are possible, are all there. Balls are structured as theme based competitions, where participants compete in different
categories borrowed and mimicked runway fashion, and high society. Today there is no limit to the types of themes you might see
at a ball, ranging from how well competitors pull off their drag –
otherwise known as «drag realness» – to time period based themes, like «90s hiphop girl», as mere examples. Sometimes the
themes are based on physicality, sometimes on skill, sometimes
on attitude. It just depends on the organizers. But by and large,
they are steeped in performance. At a ball performers can be
whoever they desire to become. Outside social delineations of
gender are almost made irrelevant at a ball, where all is considered fair game. A table of judges, like a low-budget «American
Idol» panel, sit ready to be wowed, entertained and moved by
the participants’ theatrics. These events create an almost egalitarian sense that anyone can have an opinion, regardless of if
they are actually a judge. In this sense, the events are very participatory and never void of drama.
Ball culture is not unknown to the world. The 90s documentary
‹Paris is Burning› was arguably the first to unashamedly and intimately project the lives of ball goers outside of the insular com-
munity, chronicling the movement in 80s New York. Beyond
that, pop culture icons appropriated and made mainstream many
of their staple elements like vogue dancing, as evidenced in
Madonna’s hit song, ‹Vogue›.
Yet, this particular event is somewhat of an offshoot of the typical
ball, focused on youth ages between 13 and 24, who grew up
within the hiphop generation, through the Obama presidency,
the internet age and the legalization of gay marriage in many
parts of the country – and even the world. The social circumstances are visibly different than that of the «golden era» of ball
culture as documented in ‹Paris is Burning›, but the realities of
systemic oppression are passed along still and create new social
challenges that this subculture is uniquely equipped to deal
with. The ballroom culture is still needed, but in many ways,
must adapt to the younger generation’s lifestyles, vernacular and
interests. Thereby the Kiki Scene was created. At this particular
event held in East New York, Brooklyn – still believed to be one
of the toughest, economically depressed areas of the city – fresh
faced and stylish youth, who look like they were just plucked
from an Urban Outfitter’s catalogue, come to vogue, strut down
the runway, and show their «realness» at the potential of winning cash prizes. Prizes have long been part of the ballroom event
culture, but an added benefit of the Kiki Scene in particular is the
insertion of health promotion messaging, HIV and STI testing,
and a sex-positive space for kids who are the most at-risk of homelessness and contracting STIs. According to the Center for Disease Control, young men who have sex with men, particularly men
of color, are the only growing population in the HIV/AIDS epidemic within the US, whilst in most other groups the rates are steadily decreasing. In most other cases in the «developed world»,
HIV is nearly a manageable nuisance, deemed now a chronic disease, controllable through medications. Of course the accessibility of said treatments warrants an entirely separate investigation.
In fact, the multi-service facility that the event is hosted in encompasses a clinic with a specialty in HIV care, and housing for
low-income individuals living with chronic conditions, most of
whom are over the age of 40. These clients have grown into their
later lives having narrowly survived their own generation’s great
economic downturn – the Reagan era, the rise of crack-cocaine,
and witnessed a disproportionate number of their friends die during the HIV/AIDS epidemic that hugely devastated their communities. The young ball goers at this particular event hit exactly within the demographic-target of the young community who
are most at-risk. This is no coincidence. It is one of the more sophisticated new strategies that healthcare providers are using to
target this group by going to where they already are. Anecdotally,
reports of gay and queer youth frequently get abused and/or kicked out of their homes because of their sexual orientations. Factually, this is most certain, and the biggest runaway population
remains LGBT youth, year in and year out, with no signs of a positive turn. Transgender youth make up 40 percent of homeless
youth, according to the Center for American Progress. The
emergence of the ballroom scene, came with it also, the development of insular clusters called «houses» – homes for ballroom
participants, structured like fraternities or sororities, with a
«mother» and «father» at the head, assuming leadership and responsibility for the other members. In the real life sense, these
organizations effectively become homes for many runaway and
homeless youth rejected from their own homes and communities. For decades now this phenomenon has stayed intact, and
has allowed for a safe space for vulnerable youth – almost like an
underground and unofficial foster system. When asked how he
got involved with the Kiki’s, Dice NYC Father Thomas Pink,
the father of Kiki house, stated: «I never had any gay friends, so
my cousin brought me to Christopher Street [in the village], and
brought me to an event in the city, and I loved to dance. I got involved because I wanted to dance, and now I’m a house parent
taking care of other youth in the community.»
The Kiki Scene in particular is like a junior version of the ball
culture proper, where on top of glamour and glitz, and the potential of winning recognition, hyperlocal fame and prizes, participants can also be incentivized to get an HIV test, or enroll in a
social service. In fact, that’s the norm. Hetrick-Martin Institute’s
«Kiki Lounge», Gay Men’s Health Crisis’ annual Latex Ball, and
the collaborative «Youth Pridefest» (comprised of many organizations) are all great examples of how an underground subculture
has successfully teamed up with community-based organizations
to offer social services in an effective and non-institutional setting. Anya Neal, outreach worker of the New York non-profit
Housing Works said: «I was introduced as a provider giving services at the Kiki coalition prevention movement. It’s effective
because we are able to get the homeless youth into one building,
and attract them by throwing a ball, and from then on, we are
able to outreach and engage.»
Young folks who have become «celebrities» of the scene, like
Twiggy Pucci Garcon, founder of House of Pucci, have a really
important opportunity ahead to be health ambassadors to their
communities: bringing in an education, services and culturally
appropriate messaging to a growing demographic often neglected
by conventional social services and the government. The subculture as a whole has been garnering increased attention from the
public eye, hopefully setting an expectation for other marginalized groups to identify and fulfill the needs unique to their communities in a completely spectacular way.
Text by Boyuan Gao
Artifice equals power
There is more to the ballroom scene than chopping, mopping, «fierceness» and shade; and there is more to voguing than striking a pose.
Drag is a form of control. By looking good one can feel good. By looking powerful, one can feel powerful. One can be powerful.
Therefore, beauty begets control. Artifice equals power. [...] Then again, it may just be a bunch of bitches competing for trophies.
Either way, its fun. — House of Diabolique