ANOHNI’S MONDAY SERVICE Anohni We performed as Blacklips Performance Cult, every Monday starting at 1:00 am. Marti took this at our third show at the Pyramid. Marti Wilkerson That night was my first time seeing the Blacklips Performance Cult at the Pyramid Club. I’d met Anohni just that week when she handed me a flyer for [that night’s play], “Revenge of Blacklips.” The lateness of the hour, the strange plots, the club going on around us—it was like a tawdry jewelry box. A Our flyers said things like, “Be beautiful, worship the devil.” I invited all sorts, in bars or on the street, to come and perform. It was about as underground as [you could go] at that time. Pretty quickly, we grew as a collective. Some of the more enthusiastic members started calling us a “cult,” but there was nothing satanic about us. It was the time of Jesse Helms and art censorship, [and] AIDS was still in full force. We were saying “Fuck you” to what was happening in our community. MW One night [the show] would be Charlie’s Angels, reinterpreted as the Manson murders, and the next would be something out of a silent film—a beautiful procession, to contrast with the horror. It swung between extremes. A The plays were a free-for-all: some amazing, some terrible. You never knew. MW Some of the plays had a mockingly religious element; one was called “The Ascent into Heaven,” with “sassy Jesus” and “Gothic Mary.” Many ended once all the characters had killed each other. But the very last thing, I distinctly remember, was Anohni would sing a song—something beautiful and ghostly. A The first night Marti came, I remember I sang one of my own songs, “Blue Angel.” My stage name was “Fiona Blue” in those days. [She] was my way of assuming more confidence... It’s not something I talk much about, but [she had] a more aggressive performance style. We were all really into gender expressionism and pre-war Berlin—that sense of a decrepit cabaret. We were obscure, still on the periphery; the audience was generally a toothless assortment [laughs]. I was still grappling with my [sense of self] onstage. I was really young, but I wanted to create a sense of heightened feeling in the room. Like Joey Arias as Billie Holiday as opposed to mainstream drag. It was like an athletic pursuit: getting a room full of drunk people to cry in three minutes. MW Anohni’s song would bring a closure and catharsis to the evening. Her voice, even back then, really affected [us]. By the end of “Blue Angel,” we were all in tears. It was otherworldly. The Pyramid was our sanctuary.
FIONA BLUE WITH BLACKLIPS PERFORMANCE CULT AT PYRAMID CLUB IN 1992, PHOTO BY MARTI WILKERSON
LOVE BALL ‘89 Before nightlife, I had a store [in New York] selling London designers like Body Map and Vivienne Westwood. But there was nowhere for people to go in the fabulous clothes I was selling. I wanted a space that [encouraged] dressing up, so I started [a party] all about head-to-toe looks—being seen and high energy. That was always the message [of all my parties]. One night I came home just depressed and devastated; I’d had another friend pass away [from AIDS] and it all felt so surreal. Two of my closest friends, roommates who also worked at the shop, had also died of AIDS; it wasn’t one or two deaths, but a series. At one point Kenny Kenny had said, “You should give a night’s proceeds to an AIDS organization.” I thought, that’s not enough. But a lightbulb went off: Why not borrow the format of the Harlem house balls, and invite companies to pay to be their own “house” for a night? First I called Annie Flanders of Details, who agreed to [secure] ads, and Simon Doonan [of Barneys]. So in an hour two massive people were [on board], and by the end sponsors included everyone from Body Map to Absolut Vodka, and Thierry Mugler [pictured], David Byrne and Iman had agreed to judge. For the venue, I wanted an old-school space, large enough to put on a show. Roseland Ballroom was always the one, but institutions like that normally charge union fees—$10 to screw in a lightbulb. But for us, Roseland agreed to break the union [contract]; that was a real coup. The guestlist came together easily: Whoever bought a ticket could come, no VIP or anything. Fuck the guestlist; it was about charity. Planning took a year, A to Z; I had a hand in everything. A million people helped, but in the end, it was my party. One of the reasons I agreed to Love Ball III this summer was the CFDA partnership; on my own, it was almost too much. That first night, I was running around like a headless chicken. But after the opening number, which had skateboarders flying over the crowd, [I paused]. I started crying—like, oh my God, this is happening. It was really the first time the fashion community had come together and acknowledged that we were all a part of this [epidemic]. Anyone that mattered to me was there. It was the most eclectic group— Anna Wintour and Isaac Mizrahi, Leigh Bowery and Pepper LaBeija of House of LaBeija, as well as the [corporate managers] of companies like Calvin Klein and Kiehl’s, all drinking champagne served by drag queens. I think that was one of the first times [many of them] had ever seen drag. Madonna was a bit of a surprise—you never know who will actually show up. But the message was the same—to celebrate life, and bring on the feathers and glitter! The end of the night was the most beautiful... I came out to thank all the guests, and the first person I saw was Bill Cunningham... I missed him at Love Ball III. He was right in front of me, and behind him was a standing ovation. I thought, this is the definition of love. I felt the love go through me, and back out through my outstretched hands. We raised $400,000 that night, [but] that feeling was worth a billion. I could have moved mountains, feeling that way. SUSANNE BARTSCH
LOVE BALL JUDGE THIERRY MUGLER AND SUSANNE BARTSCH AT LOVE BALL I, 1989, COURTESY OF CFDA
