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 dressed in tailors, ties and dresses, but with a hippie aura still in print, and the three of us with giant roundabout skirts of satin colors underneath layers of tulle. 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, spoke 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 by 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 never presented myself with the classic tutú: French or English, that barbed skirt that showed legs. Maybe that's why I tried to get hold of my roundabout skirt, because I still want it today. I remained a teenage dancer, 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 stay like spectator. But the tutu is an image that is desired, without thinking of the effort that demands to have it.

The most outstanding artists of that period were Marsden Hartley, Joseph Stella, Arthur Dove, Georgia O'Keeffe and Stuart Davis. They are works, sometimes almost abstract, of great elegance and vitality, whose forms show a hidden sensuality.

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

Wet hair and make-up 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. The 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 it: strange women that I can not reach.

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