performing – The Spin Diaries: Your Guide to Everything Pole and Aerial

I took a stage makeup class and all I got was a gorgeous makeover and new skills for life.

Posted on June 23, 2014July 28, 2016 by Cathy Vandewater

It was pretty awesome.

First, Le Results.

Here are a few shots of me modeling in soft, romantic fluorescent light of my litchenbedroom (I live in a studio). I didn’t think to show you my eyes closed because, naturually, my number one concern while taking photos is making sure my nose doesn’t take up 3/4ths of the shot. Sorry! #priorities

I woke up like this. (LOL JK this took 45 mins).

Before this I was trying to get a clear shot of the makeup in the bathroom for a long time, and my face started getting tired. My smile became kind of… demented… and I rolled with it.

True story: I used to make faces at my ex-boyfriend all the time while being silly and he would suddenly get really serious and say, “That was too scary, never do that face again.”

ANYWAY. This makeup class was two hours long, and offered at my bellydance studio, taught by the director of the school.

K, a teacher and performer, used to do 5 shows a day in Las Vegas in the same face of makeup, so clearly she knew her pencil eyeliner from her potted to her liquid felt-tip. The first hour was spent watching in awe as she applied her typical stage face, which was awkward, but informative. It’s not very often you get to openly gape at another dancer while she does her makeup and not get a strange look.

True Story #2: speaking of dancers putting on makeup, part of the reason I decided to take this class was because of a passive aggressive comment one of my dance idols made before our last show. She came up behind me in the dressing room while I was digging through my makeup bag, and thinking she needed the mirror, I immediately cleared a spot for her. But she said, “No, no, I’m fine–did you do your own makeup?” and I totally fan-girled and turned red and said yes, yes I did (OMG SHE LIKES MY MAKEUP??!!!). And then she sighed and walked away. “We really have to offer that makeup class at Bellyqueen again.”

BURN. BURRRRRRRRRRRRRN.

So anyway, I decided to take the class–the second, more hilarious half of which was spent using our own supplies to try and do anything resembling what we had just been shown. The steps were as follows.

OFFICIAL STAGE MAKEUP ORDER OF OPERATIONS:

-Moisturizer (always, K said we should let it soak in for 10 minutes before doing anything else)

-Primer (Yas, suction cup your makeup to yo’ face!)

-Eyelid primer (I dismissed this as prissy and unnecessary until Kaeshi put a little on her hand and then applied some blue eyeshadow over it–which look very intense, highly pigmented, and practically opaque. She then applied some of the same eyeshadow on the bare skin next to the patch of primer and it look about 5 shades lighter and completely see-through. ALRIGHTY THEN. [buys all of the eyelid primer])

-Foundation (K applied this with a brush, a technique I fully endorse)

-Concealer (zits, etc)

-Powder (set that ish!)

-Eyebrows (There is some science to this! Did you know your brow should arch just over the outside rim of your pupil? And try this trick: hold a pencil parallel to your nose at the nostril: that’s where you eyebrow should start. Then hold it diagonally from your nostril to the outisde of you pupil. That’s where your eyebrow should end. Actually fuck it, here is a picture).

-Eye shadow highlight (You probably know this trick–champagne/white/silvery shimmer shadow under the brow bones and in the inner corner of your eyes. This will contrast with your darker shadows to give more dimension (re: highs and lows) to your face that stage lighting will wash out)

-Eye liner (complicated, I’ll revisit this)

-Eye shadow, tri color (FINALLY something I know about. I’ve been doing the brown bone/crease/outside corner trick practically out of the womb. But turns out… my technique was lacking–K said I needed to bring my dark “crease” shade a lot higher up, since I was trying to keep it safe and close to my lid. She was right, of course.)

-Eye lashes (Note: fuck these. They are gorgeous, but so unwieldy.)

-Contouring (Kim Kardashian killed any interest I had in manipulating the look of my bone structure but I grudgingly did it).

-Blush (Apples of the cheeks only, bitches, it’s 2014.)

-Lip liner

-Lipstick (the kind you can practically peel off like nail polish for children, ie. Cover Girl Outlast, etc.)

So those are the steps… but now let me impart on you my biggest stage makeup breakthroughs (since, come on, we all know how to put on basic makeup).

Dat gap. (between top and bottom eye lines, not thighs). And yes that IS the Verazzano Bridge, thanks for noticing.

BREAKTHROUGHS:

1. Connecting your top and bottom eye lines makes your eyes look tiny

The pros leave a SPACE. (I know, my mind was blown too). And for extra points, use that light colored eyeshadow you popped on your brown bone to further define the little space. Use a small brush or Q-tip.

Here how ya do it: start by lining your lower lash line. Continue the line (keeping the same angle) past your lash line. Then, starting from mid lashline on the top, start drawing a line and pull it out parallel to your bottom line. Fill it in and bring it up to the inside corner of your eye. SHAZAM.

2. You can get away with cheap-ass eye shadow if you have a good primer

For stage make up especially (where you need to see that shit coming and going from 200 feet), pigment is everything. But pigment is pricey, and we can’t all afford K’s magical trunk of MAC goodness. This is where dropping a little cash on a good eye shadow primer up front will help you get tons of use out of the crappy eye shadow you already have: it grabs and holds the pigment (however little), making it appear super intense, and keeping it on your face.

I used Urban Decay… Potion… something or other? It worked well!

3. Contouring for stage isn’t just about making your face skinny or tanned-looking like IRL

It’s about replacing the natural high-and-low dimensions that stage lighting will wipe out. Ditto for the eybrows and lashes and lips. Stage makeup is a little different than your everyday “look-young-and-rosy-and-doe-eyed” game. Your eyebrows, for example, have to be clearly defined so that the audience can see you lift or scrunch them. They’re as much a part of your dance expression as fingers or a pointed toe. Same goes for eyes and lips–the makeup simply makes them visible, so you really can’t be shy about highlighting them.

4. You can reuse eyelashes

What?! I didn’t know this. You just need to wash the glue off gently after a wear. That makes me feel a lot better dropping $20 bucks on a pair at Sephora.

So that’s all the knowledge I have to drop on you guys! Speaking of Sephora, I completely spent $150 I don’t have on new makeup in a pre-show panic Saturday. But I’m now the proud owner of a proper pot of eyeliner, quality lashes, a single pan eyeshadow (NOT PART OF A KIT I GOT FOR CHRISTMAS, WHAT), a new angle brush, and a general mishmash of overpriced, undersized products.

Do you have a go-to stage look? A favorite product? Can you reassure me that higher-end products are indeed worth their insane price points?

XOXO

Why does everything look crappier on stage than it does in the studio?!

Posted on May 14, 2014July 28, 2016 by Cathy Vandewater

Is it a matter of context? Lighting? The costumes? The camera taking the photos?

I’ve been working out 5 days a week for a few months now, and the night of this show, I remember feeling really good, totally comfortable in my costume, but a little worried that my makeup was too heavy. During the actual dance I felt connected to the music, fierce and emotive in my facial expressions, and 100% in the moment. Muscle memory is a wonderful thing.

And then I was tagged in photos from the show and I just see BLECHHHHHHH. Why am I barefaced?! Dead in the eyes? And don’t even get me started on body stuff. I’m actually self-conscious now that my arms are too… big. Not even flabby or anything, just, large. Over-sized. Not delicate.

Am I fucked in the head? Because it’s super annoying to spend so much time busting your ass learning choreo, training to stay in shape, and primping for a show only to dread photo-evidence of it forever afterward.

Should I get ribs removed and arm liposuction? Should I just stop performing?

Yeah yeah, I already know the answer: I just need get over it and roll on. But please someone, commiserate with me. What is it about performing that makes everything seem hopelessly not good enough?

Body paranoia aside, I’m pretty damn excited that we got to do a $40-a-ticket show in New York City on a REAL STAGE with REAL LIGHTING. I’ll try to be less of a brat here, because wow, what an opportunity. And I’m so proud of our group!! We really did rally and do a great show, despite last minute choreo and blocking changes. #pros 😉

In terms of pole, though, I can’t imagine doing this someday alone, in a smaller costume, and with literally much higher stakes (if you screw up you FALL, ahhhh). Even without the body stuff (EEK, really, in a bikini?!!) the pole adds so many new variables to things that can go wrong. The hand sweat alone… I can’t even.

Ladies who have done shows, are you prone to photo-induced mini breakdowns? How did you get over it? Do you ever have those feelings right before a show that your choreo is boring and no one should watch it? (I have this thought before EVERY show. Not helpful, brain).

<3<3<3

Wow, that was embarassing: on performance malfunctions

Posted on October 25, 2013October 25, 2013 by Cathy Vandewater

HEY GAIZ,

As many of you know, I had a belly dance show a few weeks ago. Like, a big one. $40 bucks a ticket, with Bellyqueen, in a theater.

I was not supposed to be in this show.

I did not want to be in this show.

(Okay, I kind of did, but I never expected to have the chance, and I was NOT prepared).

What I WAS supposed to do was be an understudy/warm body for use as a placeholder during rehearsals. In exchange for helping with formations (ie. filling in the empty spots of out-of-town-dancers to help the New York-based ones learn their blocking), I was to get the opportunity to learn all the routines, network with other dancers, and bask in the general excitement of preparing for a SHOW.

It did not work out the way I expected.

For one thing, no one had time to teach me the actual routines. Thus, instead of being a helpful, moving cog, I was a stumbling mess the other dancers had to trip over. The dancers did not appreciate this.

On top of that, I realized that once the show got closer, the twice-a-week rehearsals I had promised to be at were increasing to DAILY ones, from the hours of 10am to 6pm.

Um. You guys. I have a job. Not really possible.

By the time I saw this coming, I had already been named a “worm” in the show–not as an insult, as an actual role! The director was getting nervous about giving the undesirable yet crucial part to a dancer who was arriving in NYC just days before the show. Since being a “worm” involved lying on the floor wrapped in a piece of silk, and then being unwrapped, I didn’t really see a reason to say no. It seemed foolproof, and it was a way to be genuinely helpful after all the stumbling.

LOLOLOL spoiler alert: it was NOT foolproof.

Here’s a list of the ways this went wrong just in rehearsals (it went wrong during the performance in unprecedented ways):

1. I “unraveled” too far away from the group, ended up way on the other side of the stage alone (separated from the other worms), where the other dancers had to hop over me

2. My unraveler couldn’t find the end of my silk, and thus could not unwrap me

3. One of the other worms kicked me in the face, and I couldn’t get away from her because that was the direction I was being unraveled in

4. The end of the silk got caught around my neck as the dancers wound their ends of the fabric in a fast, tight twist, which was… scary, but let’s face it, also kind of hilarious in an awful, dangerous way.

5. In dress rehearsal, I discovered that the light reflected off the hood I was wearing under my silk which rendered me completely blind

(This blindness thing is important later, during the actual show).

So, the last weeks leading up to the performance were a disaster. Everybody was stressed out, under-rehearsed, and (it felt like) pissed off at me for never being able to be at rehearsals (NB: I took SO much time off of work to the point where I was barely able paid my rent last month, but, I get that it still looked like diva behavior to the other chicks that I rolled in for only half of a practice when everyone else was there all day).

And then I saw the costume.

I immediately realized why it was hard to find somebody already in the cast who wanted to do this: A tight, shiny body suit, with black tights, black plastic mask, hood, and of course, several yards of tightly wrapped silk that were hot and intensely claustrophobic.

The worms were set early: we had to lay on our sides during the “entr’acte” music, and then during the first half of the number before our “deaths” and unravelment.

To my great relief, I did NOT panic or throw up (even though my elbow was pressing directly into my stomach in the position I was staged on the floor in, and I was feeling hot and panicky and nervous). I was also unraveled without being strangled, and I hit my mark at the point of “death” like a champ.

Great! Time for lights down, where we would sneak off stage and I could relax for the rest of Act 1.

Except, the lights did not go down.

I waited an extra moment. They didn’t go down.

OH FUCK OH FUCK WHY ARE THE LIGHTS STILL ON.

I lifted my head a little to check the other dancers, but couldn’t seen them through my hood, which was bouncing the light from the spotlights that were STILL ON US.

Did I mention I was lying, ass-facing-the-audience, in a unitard?

After what felt like hours, I heard the music change for the next scene–still with no lights-down–and hopped to my feet, run-limping off stage.

I kept thinking, at least stay in character! But how does a dead silk worm leave the stage? So I limped? Kinda? While also running because I didn’t want people to look at my body in a shiny unitard?

It was a tough call.

Anyway, here’s what my ass looked like moments before everything went horribly wrong:

A photographer named Brian Lin took this. Holla! (PS. that’s my ass, front and center, in case you were wondering).

I wish I could say I learned something from this experience, beyond, “Go with it,” but really, that’s my takeaway.

The thing is, it’s show biz, and everybody’s having shit go wrong, and nobody cares what went wrong with your particular shit. To the worms, being EXTREMELY well-lit in shiny body suits was the worst thing possible. But, the rest of the cast barely raised an eyebrow, the audience noted and forgot it, and the lighting director probably didn’t even realize he’d messed up, because the next night, the exact same thing happened. This time, though, we were prepared, and we perfectly executive a back-up plan to crawl off in unison.

So I guess the moral of the story is, expect the unexpected, and laugh about shit you can’t control.

And if nothing else, trying wearing a mask and a unitard for all of your performances so you can deny it was you later!*

*this won’t work for pole.

Do you guys have any performance horror stories?

I was recently doing a few tricks outside for the 3rd Avenue Festival in Brooklyn when it started drizzling… and a wet pole=having to give up on a few moves, and sliding around a little. But overall, I have yet to TOTALLY embarrass myself on the pole. Please somebody share a story and make me feel better.

Happy twirls!