Ceci N'est Pas Une . . . (Patreon)

This week, I'm ending your readings with a little story time about the way this act has found its name! Next week, we'll pick things back up by digging into this story a bit more and teasing out the threads of why this serendipitous moment of naming reaches out in multiple satisfying directions – plus, you'll get another story about a far goofier name that Marika (the latex costumer) came up with.

As you read this, I will be in a car roadtripping 3.5 hours down the highway to meet Michael Slack (the giant dress designer) halfway and pick up the Huge Floofy Dress. Ty, the wig stylist, has also made some absolutely stunning headway on the hair, and I hope to have it in my grubby little paws by the weekend and share some photos of THE WHOLE ENSEMBLE NEXT WEEK! 

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At the end of July, I was still in Montréal visiting my dear friend (and patron <3 -- hi Jen!) Jen Crane.
We were slogging through straps training, I was re-conditioning my contortion after a nerve tension injury that had me on the bench for most of the preceding 2 months, and I was just teetering on the edge of deciding what to do about the Zurich Situation (all of you know by now how that turned out). I was starting to think about the story of Barbette, and the latex + gender-bending interests of the European producer.

I began musing about what I might call the act. I know this might seem like putting the cart before the horse, in terms of process, but sometimes it's a helpful mental trick to convince your inner Imposter Gremlins that what you are doing is, in fact, worthwhile , and that you yourself are not, in fact, a hack with No Good Ideas. I didn't want to figure out a name out of any creative necessity; I wanted a linguistic hook to hang my hat on as I went about deciding how to embark on this inadvisable creation timeline.

Barbette, Barbette, Barbette.

“I need to get out of the house,” I said to Jen, wilting under the weight of a morning suffering from an overabundance of lofty ambitions and a paucity of productivity in the Eureka-Moment department. “Wanna join me on a walk?”

We took ourselves outside into a beautiful warm summer afternoon. We meandered through the ruelles of Old Rosemont, made our way north to Parc Molson, and ended up in a coffeeshop on Rue Beaubien. Further caffeination was almost certainly inadvisable in that particular moment, but I was in that creative place where more coffee felt like the answer to my many mental roadblocks.

This was a hipster café from a bygone era. It was gloomy and dim inside, but full of charm and warmth. The small wooden tables were well-worn from many years of customers instead of pre-sanded to look stylishly vintage; there were beautiful line-art illustrations up on display on the walls by a local artist; knick-knacks  and curios were tucked away everywhere atop cabinets and shelves cluttered with books, posters, coffee making devices.

We wandered up to the cash register to place our order. Hanging over the table, behind the COVID-era plexiglass separator, was a huge, old gilt picture frame. A worn recipe card was tacked to the top of it, curling cursive in faded felt-tip markers scrawling out: Ceci ne pas un employé.

“Ess! Ess!” Jen said, pointing at the sign. “It’s your act!”

“I– what?” I said. "Where?"

“The sign,” she repeated impatiently. “Look! Except yours would be … what? 'Ceci ne pas une femme'?”

I stared slack-jawed at what Jen was drawing my attention to.

That’s it.

“It’s perfect!” I exclaimed.

* * * * * * [ to be continued]

P.S. Alas, my goal of trying to get this project together and shot by Sunday the 29th has turned out to be simply impossible, with the way that costuming timelines, rehearsal progress, and other act details simply panned out. But THAT'S OKAY! We're aiming to shoot a demo of this thing SEPTEMBER 4th! Fingers crossed...