A caged female stares at an audience arriving
Fresh flowers are treated to a trim, stalks first, heads last, all across the boards
Barricaded in, furniture encloses me
Petals scattered, scissor blades are turned to my prim attire
Blouse pierced I hack at sleeves and torso
Flesh revealed, I freeze in crazed stupor
My thighs are thick with an effervescing femininity as I perform Emmeline Pankhurst
Stripping in stages to discordant Schoenberg; a feminist raging release from her clothes
In the early 20th Century Suffragettes gathered at what is now the Battersea Arts Centre for radical meetings. Now this theme is recaptured with theatrical intent. A director instructs me to move subtly as I take the scissors to my garments. But it’s all in the moment, and I just can’t help myself.
There is something extremely potent about tearing one’s clothes off with total abandon, so I just go with it like a wild woman. Yet each impulsive thrust is followed by my contemplative stillness; I hold back for a unique build up of my own sexual tension, not directed to this audience, if only to the one in my mind.
Every performance has a new costume for me to destroy. The artists cut me up too, collages created, and a violent, sexy undressing given shape.