In the 1980s I lived in the East Village, and as I was strolling around the neighborhood one day with a couple of Puerto Rican friends, we noticed that a large group of drag queens were strutting up and down the street, and everyday people were going about their daily activities wearing wigs, not properly arranged on their heads but placed there as a hat, a quirky flourish, and a statement. It was Wigstock, the festival of drag performances founded in 1984 as a response to the hostile anti-LGBTQ environment fostered by the state’s reaction to the AIDS crisis and the neighborhood’s increasing gentrification. My friends and I quickly donned wigs and headed to Tompkins Square, where the stage had been set up for the performances. Dressed in extravagantly creative outfits and over-the-top, towering wigs, the queens on stage were by turns shady, empowering, and campy, all the while promoting a world of tolerance and love, a kind of queer utopia. Lady Bunny had even tried to put a wig on the Statue of Liberty, thus reclaiming the entire city as an LGBTQ, gender-fluid, liberated territory. Soon I was backstage photographing Lady Bunny, RuPaul, and Joey Arias as they were beginning their successful careers. And infused with a sense of urgency—that we might not be alive the following year—I began to take photographs of the ephemeral utopian gestures that they were creating as they claimed the common communal ground as a space of love, liberty, and nonviolent joyous diversity.In 2019, after a long twelve-year hiatus and nearly forty years from its beginning, the Wigstock Festival was revived at the gentrified and refurbished Pier 17. But the city had changed by then, and many performers and artists now found it financially impossible to remain a part of it. This is the world that my series Dirty Martini Delivers Gender Justice at Wigstock 2019 attempts to capture—the world of a corporate neoliberal New York where drag performers and activists have been disconnected from community and forced to look at the city from the renovated and reclaimed margins of the East River piers. Facing a homogeneously gentrified Manhattan skyline, which is visible in some photographs in the series, Dirty Martini’s mordantly joyful parody of national symbols critiques the city’s latest development and its sense of justice, turning consumerism not into profitability but into a celebration of drag performance’s excessively voluptuous, baroque, hard-to-manage-and-mainstream body.With this series I seek to confront New York’s latest urban development with drag performance’s historical gender utopia, while at the same time to reflect on the contemporary commodification and mainstreaming of gender-dissident performance and its resistances—a reflection that intersects with the broader preoccupation of my photographic oeuvre: documenting the possibilities for creating a resistant and joyful sense of community among populations that have been targeted and displaced and forced to face the devastating impact of colonialism, AIDS, and the COVID-19 pandemic.
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